THE  HARE 


THE  HARE 


BY 

ERNEST  OLDMEADOW 

Author  of  “Coo gin,”  “Antonio,”  etc. 


boston  college  library 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1921 


\ 

pp, 

5712- 
. % 
ft  3 
/P./ 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
The  Centuey  Co. 


/ 


To  E.  F.  G. 


Not  urith  a pen  of  gold , 

In  blood  of  roses  dipt ; 

Not  on  fair  vellum  scroll’d , 

I wrought  you  this  my  script . 

Here  are  no  colors  gay, 

Here  are  plain  black  and  white m 
The  white  for  eager  Day, 

The  black  for  kindly  Night . 


N 


I 


J 


BOOK  I 


THE  DELIVERER 


In  ipsa  node  erat  Petrus  dormiens  inter  duos  milites,  vindus 
catenis  duabus:  et  custodes  ante  ostium  custodiebant  carcerem . 
Et  ecce  Angelus  Domini  adstitit:  et  lumen  refulsit  in  Inab - 
itaculo:  percussoque  Petri , excitavit  eum  dicens:  Surge 
vel-ociter.  Et  ceciderunt  catenae  de  manibus  ejus.  Dixit 
autem  Angelus  ad  eum:  Praecingerey  et  calcea  te  caligas  tuas . 
Et  fecit  sic . Et  dixit  illi:  Circumda  tibi  vestimentum  tuum y 
et  sequere  me.  Et  exiens  sequebatur  eumy  et  nesciebat  quia 
verum  est  quod  fiebat  per  Angelum:  existimabat  autem  se 
visum  videre.  Transeuntes  autem  primam  et  secundam  custo- 
diamy  venerunt  ad  port  am  f err  earn  quae  ducit  ad  civitatem: 
quae  ultro  aperta  est  eis.  Et  exeuntes  processerunt  vicum 
unum:  et  continuo  discessit  Angelus  ab  eo. — actus  apostolo- 
rum,  xii,  6-10. 


THE  HARE 


CHAPTER  1 

IT  ’S  Batwood — Puffer  Batwood ! ’ 7 

“By  Jove,  it’s  Redding!  Hanged  if  it  isn’t  good 
old  Teddie  Redding ! I thought  you  were  in  Spain.  ’ ’ 
“No.  I ’m  in  Bulford.” 

“It ’s  ages  since  I last  saw  you,  Teddie.” 

‘ ‘ Ages.  Let  me  see.  How  many  years  ? What ’s  to-day  ? ’ ’ 
“It ’s  Tuesday,  the  seventeenth  of  May,  eighteen-sixty- 
four.  9 9 

‘ 4 Thanks.  I knew  it  was  Tuesday,  and  I even  had  some 
faint  suspicion  of  the  May  and  the  ’sixty-four.  But  thanks 
for  the  seventeen.  I always  forget  the  day  of  the  month, 
May  the  seventeenth,  ’sixty-four.  Puffer,  it ’s  twelve  years, 
almost  to  the  day,  since  my  father  left  Bulford ; and  it ’s 
nearly  thirteen  years  since  you  and  I last  met.” 

“I  remember,  Ted.  You  all  went  away  to  Italy  for  the 
winter,  didn’t  you?  Now,  tell  me  something  about  your- 
self.” 

“Look  here,  Puffer,  I ’ve  just  had  a happy  thought.  I ’m 
at  ‘The  Bulcaster  Arms.’  If  you ’ve  nothing  better  to  do, 
come  and  dine  with  me.  It  would  be  a great  charity.  I ’m 
all  alone.” 

“It ’s  tempting.  But  I don’t  live  in  Bulford  now.  I live 
at  Sharley,  and  the  last  train  goes  just  before  eight.  ’ ’ 

“We  can  get  over  that,”  answered  Edward  Redding,  after 
glancing  at  his  watch.  “Instead  of  waiting  for  dinner,  we 


4 


THE  HARE 


could  have  a bit  of  cold  salmon  straight  away,  and  a dish  of 
cutlets  to  follow.  And  a bottle  of  hock.  My  father  has 
often  told  me  how  good  the  Rhine  wines  are  at  ‘The  Bulcaster 
Arms/  To  speak  the  simple  truth,  you  ’ll  be  doing  me  a 
service.  I ’ve  eaten  nothing  to  speak  of  since  breakfast,  and 
I shall  jump  at  any  excuse  for  wolfing  some  food  this  very 
minute.  ’ ’ 

The  old  inn  stood  barely  a hundred  paces  away;  so  the 
walk  thither  allowed  time  for  nothing  more  than  an  inter- 
change of  chaff  on  the  corpulence  of  Bat  wood  and  the  scrag- 
giness of  Redding.  As  they  entered  the  hall  of  “The  Bul- 
caster Arms,”  Oakes,  the  new  landlord  hurried  forward. 
When,  an  hour  before,  young  Mr.  Redding  had  booked  a room, 
the  name  of  Redding  meant  nothing  to  Oakes,  who  was  not 
a Bulford  man;  but  he  greeted  Mr.  Redding’s  guest  obse- 
quiously, saying: 

“Good  evening,  Sir  George.  It  is  a long  time  since  you 
did  us  the  honor.” 

When  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  Redding  asked: 

“What  did  the  landlord  mean  by  calling  you  ‘Sir  George’?” 

“It  wasn’t  my  doing,”  his  friend  replied.  “Probably 
you  never  knew  that  my  uncle  was  Sir  Rigby  Batwood,  the 
impecunious  squire  of  Shari ey.  I didn’t  use  to  talk  about 
it.  Why  should  I?  It  was  no  good  to  me.  Besides,  there 
were  three  lives  between  me  and  the  baronetcy.  Blame  the 
Sharley  doctor,  not  me.  He  killed  off  three  baronets  in  eleven 
years.” 

“Instead  of  a bottle  of  hock,  I must  make  it  a bottle  of 
champagne,  Sir  George.” 

“Don’t  ‘Sir  George’  me,  Mr.  Redding,  or  P’m  off.” 

“I  ’ll  call  you  Sir  Puffer,  and  we  will  stick  to  hock;  but 
it  shall  be  the  best  bottle  in  the  house.  Now,  tell  me.  How 
have  you  been  puffing  these  long  years  and  years?  And, 
first  of  all,  is  there  a Lady  Batwood?” 


THE  DELIVERER 


0 


“There  is  a Lady  Batwood.  We  were  married  only  last 
month.  You  know  her.  Four  weeks  ago  she  was  Sylvia 
Witherington.” 

“Miss  Sylvia  Witherington?  You  luckiest  of  lucky  dogs. 
I remember  her  as  if  we ’d  met  yesterday.  Miss  Sylvia  was 
the  youngest  of  the  delicious  maidens  we  called  the  Nine 
Muses.  Eh  ? ” 

“Quite  so.  The  youngest.  Strangely  enough,  Sylvia  and 
I were  both  born  on  the  same  day — the  tenth  of  June,  eight- 
een thirty-seven.” 

“How  extraordinary.” 

“Stranger  still,  we  were  married  on  the  same  day  too — 
the  thirtieth  of  April,  eighteen  sixty-four.  ’ ’ 

“How  remarka — ” Redding  began.  But  he  saw  the  booby- 
trap  in  time,  and  made  up  for  the  unuttered  syllable  by  lung- 
ing playfully  at  the  baronet’s  head. 

Charles,  the  waiter,  approached.  Teddie  Redding  recog- 
nized this  veteran,  who  had  survived  two  changes  of  proprie- 
torship at  the  old  hostelry,  and  no  time  was  lost  in  agreeing 
on  the  Rhenish.  A bottle  of  Johannisberger  soon  came  up 
from  the  famous  cellars  cut  deep  in  the  living  sandstone. 
It  was  delectably  cold  on  so  warm  an  evening.  When  the 
glasses  were  filled,  the  host  said  heartily: 

“Here ’s  to  Lady  Batwood.” 

They  drank.  Then  Sir  George  demanded: 

“Can  we  drink  to  Mrs.  Edward  Redding?” 

“We  cannot,”  was  the  answer,  spoken  in  tones  of  mock 
despair.  ‘ ‘ There  will  never  be  a Mrs.  Redding.  At  the  early 
age  of  ten,  I saw  and  adored  the  lovely  and  only  Sylvia. 
Since  then  I have  thought  of  no  other  woman.  And  to-day 
I revisit  the  scenes  of  my  youth,  only  to  find  that  I am  too 
late.” 

“Then  the  only  thing  for  it  is  to  drink  to  Sylvia  again.” 

“Let  us  drink,”  assented  Teddie  in  a still  more  doleful 


6 


THE  HARE 


voice.  “By  the  way,  this  wine  is  capital.  For  one  reckless 
moment  it  almost  reconciles  me  to  my  blank  and  hopeless 
existence. 9 9 

The  fish,  a generous  shoulder-cut  of  true  Deme  salmon, 
appeared  on  the  table,  and  the  hungry  young  men  quickly 
removed  it  from  sight.  While  the  cutlets  were  grilling,  Sir 
George  enquired  about  his  friend’s  parents.  Having  ex- 
pressed unaffected  regret  at  learning  that  Edward’s  mother 
had  been  irrevocably  sentenced  to  life-long  exile  from  the 
English  climate,  and  that  her  husband’s  health  left  almost 
as  much  to  be  desired,  he  asked,  a little  awkwardly : 

“Is  your  father  still  a Roman  Catholic?” 

“Most  decidedly.” 

“And — and  yourself?” 

“No,  still  Church  of  England.  Not  one  of  the  Church’s 
brightest  ornaments  and  trustiest  pillars,  I ’m  afraid,  but  not 
a Papist.  You  see,  the  venerable  parent  has  never  put  the 
slightest  pressure  on  my  mother  and  me,  nor  tried  to  influence 
us  in  any  way.  He  keeps  a good  deal  to  himself.  When  we 
get  tired  of  one  mild  spot,  we  fold  our  tents  and  look  for  an- 
other mild  spot;  but  he  always  chooses  a town  where  my 
mother  can  attend  an  English  church  service.  Yet  he  inva- 
riably hits  on  a place  within  easy  reach  of  some  big  monastery 
with  a library,  and  then  he  causes  no  more  anxiety  to  us. 
You  know,  his  hobby  is  liturgiology.  ” 

“Heavens!  What  the  deuce  is  that?” 

“I  suppose  it ’s  got  to  do  with  church  music  and  services 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  The  pater  grubs  away  at  old  books 
and  manuscripts,  and  makes  notes  by  the  rod,  pole,  or  perch.” 

“Hasn’t  it  put  him  off  a bit,  seeing  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion  at  home,  on  its  native  heath  ? ’ ’ 

“Bless  you,  no.  What  you  hear  and  read  in  that  strain 
is  exaggerated.  I grant  there  is  dirt  and  superstition  in 
some  places,  and  that  you  often  meet  a slovenly,  coarse-grained 


THE  DELIVERER 


7 


priest.  But  are  n’t  there  heaps  of  things  to  put  pious  people 
off  in  the  Church  of  England?  Our  clergy  are  better  bred, 
better  off,  better  behaved;  but,  as  my  father  often  used  to 
say,  thousands  of  them  regard  the  cure  of  souls  first  and  fore- 
most as  4 a living.  ’ In  Romish  countries  the  priests  are  often 
social  outsiders.  In  Portugal,  for  instance,  I wish  they  shaved 
as  often  as  they  spat.  Yet  I can’t  help  noticing  how  they 
stick  to  their  job,  getting  up  in  winter  before  daybreak  for 
their  services,  saying  Mass  on  empty  stomachs,  turning  out  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  to  visit  the  dying,  and  so  on.  I expect 
to  die  a Protestant.  Yet  it  sometimes  comes  over  me  that 
the  Church  of  England  is  mainly  successful  as  a social 
institution,  and  that  the  Church  of  Rome,  from  the  stand- 
point of  poor  devils  who  want  guidance  and  comfort  and  help, 
is  unquestionably  a religion.  But  don’t  let ’s  talk  theology. 
You  started  it,  Puffer.  Hooray,  here  are  the  cutlets.” 

There  were  four  cutlets;  and  these,  together  with  a small 
head  of  cauliflower,  went  the  way  of  the  salmon.  A wedge 
of  ripe  Skilbury  cheese  concluded  the  meal,  and  before  the 
knives  ceased  clinking  it  had  been  minished  and  brought  low. 

‘ ‘Pardon  my  asking,”  said  Sir  George.  “It  is  not  idle 
curiosity.  Are  you  and  your  parents  free  from  anxiety?  I 
had  heard  that  your  father  gave  away  all  his  savings  before  he 
left  Bulford.  I ’m  a poor  man  myself,  and  I know  what 
money  worries  are;  but  I have  a good  deal  of  influence,  and 
I do  beg  you  to  let  me  use  it  if  I can  be  of  any  service.” 

“You  were  always  a brick,  Puffer,”  Redding  answered 
warmly.  “Thank  heaven,  we  are  all  right.  Twelve  years 
ago  things  looked  black.  My  mother’s  fortune  was  lost — I 
ought  to  say  stolen.  But  soon  afterwards  my  father  came 
unexpectedly  into  a very  useful  sum;  more  than  what  my 
mother  lost.  Besides,  I have  a sort  of  profession.  I am 
called  an  artist.  Don’t  laugh.  I do  illustrations  for  novels — 
for  the  monthly  magazines,  you  know.  They  send  me  the 


8 


THE  HARE 


printer’s  proofs,  and  I draw  Lucy  standing  beside  the  old  mill- 
stream,  hallowed  by  a hundred  dear  memories,  with  Edgar’s 
letter  in  her  little  hand.” 

4 'The  devil  you  do,”  snorted  Sir  George.  "Now  I under- 
stand where  you  learned  that  high-flown  language  about  my 
poor  Sylvia  just  now.  I hope  they  pay  you  properly.” 

"Improperly.  That  is  to  say,  they  pay  me  more  than  I 
deserve,  and  more  than  I spend.  This  evening  I ’m  deter- 
mined to  get  rid  of  some  of  my  hoard.  We  ’ll  have  a bottle  of 
port,  Puffer.  My  father,  when  he  heard  I was  coming  here, 
told  me  to  Jook  out  for  the  ’47.  They  had  a big  bin  of  it — 
twelve  pipes,  I think.  Charles!  Here,  Charles,  what  about 
your  ’47  port  ? It  ought  to  be  drinkable  by  now.  ’ ’ 

"It ’s  beautiful,  sir,”  replied  Charles,  with  conviction. 
"We  ’ve  been  drinking  it  these  five  years.  For  that  matter, 
there  was  gents  as  thought  it  beautiful  more  ’n  twelve  years 
ago,  when  it  wasn’t  hardly  used  to  the  bottles.  No  offense, 
sir,  but  you ’ve  heard  tell  of  the  torchlight  procession  in 
Bulford,  same  year  as  the  Great  Exhibition,  the  night  young 
Coggin  was  chaired  round  the  town  ? Well,  there  was  gents  as 
drank  our  ’47  that  same  night.  A sin  I called  it:  begging 
pardon.” 

Edward  Redding’s  heart  leapt.  The  conversation  had  sud- 
denly moved  within  an  inch  of  the  very  business  which  had 
drawn  him  to  Bulford.  He  dissembled  his  relief,  and  waited 
patiently  until  the  wine  had  been  decanted  and  served. 
When  Charles  had  left  the  room,  Redding  remarked,  in  an 
off-hand  way: 

"People  were  always  talking  about  that  precious  torchlight 
procession.  I was  away  from  Bulford,  and  I didn’t  see  it.” 

"Didn’t  see  it?  By  Jove,  I’m  glad  I saw  it.  It  was 
something  to  see.  Wait  a bit,  though.  Surely  you  weren’t 
clean  out  of  that  Coggin  affair,  Teddie.  Don’t  I remember 
you  being  in  Coggin’s  rag-and-bone  yard  the  afternoon  when 


THE  DELIVERER  9 

we  played  Red  Indians?  You  were  at  the  school  that 
year  ? ’ ’ 

“Of  course  I remember  the  Red  Indians.  As  if  I could 
ever  forget  it!  But  I didn’t  see  the  end.  What  happened 
after  the  mammas  arrived?  Did  you  all  trot  home  like  good 
little  boys  ? ’ 9 

Sir  George  tossed  off  his  port.  If  it  had  been  raw  stuff 
costing  two  shillings  the  bottle  he  could  not  have  gulped  it 
down  more  inattentively.  Warming  up,  he  bubbled  over  with 
reminiscences.  As  the  moving  spirit  of  the  Red  Indian 
revels,  he  had  often  been  asked  to  tell  the  story  of  that  riotous 
afternoon,  and  without  conscious  untruthfulness,  he  had  grad- 
ually intensified  and  adorned  the  narrative  until  it  attained 
to  epic  largeness.  Edward  Redding  heard,  for  the  first  time, 
that  two  horses  had  been  pressed  into  service;  that  “High” 
Hall  and  Chibuall  Primus,  after  arming  themselves  cap-a-pie, 
had  tilted  at  each  other  on  horseback,  with  lance*,  nade  of 
withered  laths,  which  snapped  and  splintered  gloriously 
against  the  oilcloth  breastplates;  that  Chalky  Parkyns  and 
Duck  Lorimer  had  fought  a gladiatorial  combat  on  foot, 
Chalky  playing  the  part  of  retiarius  with  a toasting  fork  and  a 
remnant  of  tarred  netting,  while  Duck  stood  up  to  him  as 
mirmillo  with  a blunt  old  carving  knife;  and  that  Jawbones 
Feber,  the  ugliest  boy  in  Bulford  School,  had  beamed  down 
on  the  rivals  from  a rocking  throne  of  packing-cases,  where 
he  sat  crowned  with  a soiled  wreath  of  cotton  roses  as  Queen 
of  Beauty.  It  transpired  further  that,  growing  tired  of  the 
marine-store  yard,  the  boys  finally  poured  out  along  the 
canal  bank ; that  they  had  swarmed  into  some  empty  barges ; 
and  that  they  had  fought  a small  Battle  of  Actium,  which 
did  not  end  before  three  or  four  heroes  had  tumbled  into 
the  dirty  water. 

When  this  lively  recitation  had  been  delivered,  Redding 
sought  news  of  several  old  school-fellows.  He  learned  that 


10 


THE  HARE 


Charlie  Dolling  had  been  drowned,  as  a midshipman,  off  the 
coast  of  Japan;  that  Fred  Venn-Venning  had  run  through 
two  fortunes,  and  was  already  a bankrupt  at  the  early  age 
of  twenty-five;  that  Lippy  Vaughan  was  about  to  be  thrown 
out  of  his  curacy  at  Napperton  for  ritualistic  excesses;  that 
Bully  Tranter  was  growing  a long  beard,  and  doing  nothing 
else;  that  the  Honorable  Ralph  Cotterton  had  married  a 
tallow-chandler’s  daughter  with  pots  of  money;  and  that 
Walter  Garnett  was  standing  for  Parliament.  Mentioning 
other  names,  Edward  Redding  found  that  most  of  the  old 
boys  had  settled  down  quietly  in  Bulford,  as  might  have  been 
expected.  At  last  he  decided  that  the  right  moment  had 
come,  and  he  asked: 

4 ‘ What  about  Slogger  Coggin?” 

“Coggin?  Oh,  he ’s  still  in  town,”  answered  Sir  George. 
“He  gave  up  the  rags  and  bones  when  his  father  and  mother 
died.  Deals  in  old  furniture  now.” 

“Is  he  doing  well?” 

“I ’m  afraid  not.  They  say  his  heart  isn’t  in  his  business. 
He  is  a victim  of  music-mania.  You  will  laugh  when  I tell 
you  about  him.  Some  years  ago  the  Methodists  began  to  get 
above  themselves.  Some  of  their  members  had  made  money. 
So  they  decided  to  build  a new  chapel,  almost  like  a church, 
near  to  Victoria  Park.  They  put  the  old  chapel  up  to  auction. 
There  wasn’t  one  single  bid.  Next  day  Slogger  Coggin  went 
round  and  got  it  on  a seven  years’  lease.  What  attracted 
him  was  the  organ — not  a bad  little  organ — in  a gallery  be- 
hind the  pulpit,  over  the  preacher’s  head.  Funny  arrange- 
ment. He  uses  the  body  of  the  chapel  as  a store-room, 
show-room,  sales-room  for  old  furniture.  I saw  it  once,  and, 
’pon  my  word,  it  doesn’t  look  bad.  There  are  grandfather’s 
clocks  between  the  windows,  and  pictures  covering  every  inch 
of  the  walls — some  of  ’em  skied  higher  than  at  the  Royal 
Academy.  The  floor  is  covered  with  decent  carpets  and  thick 


THE  DELIVERER 


11 


rugs,  and  there  are  so  many  settees  and  easy  chairs,  and  sofas 
and  ottomans,  that  you  feel  as  if  you  ’re  in  a drawing-room. 
Coggin  only  shews  clean,  sound  stuff,  and  his  windows  are 
always  open.  I suppose  he  has  to  buy  frowsy  things  as  well, 
hut  I did  n ’t  see  ’em  in  the  chapel.  ’ ’ 

“You  said  the  organ  attracted  him?” 

“Yes.  That ’s  where  the  fun  comes  in.  He ’s  gradually 
made  the  organ  four  times  bigger  than  it  was  to  start  with, 
and  he  spends  half  his  time  playing  it.  There  are  big  mir- 
rors fastened  in  front  of  the  gilt  pipes.  When  a customer 
walks  into  the  chapel,  Coggin  sees  him  at  once.  They  say  he 
always  plays  a few  more  notes,  because  he  can ’t  bear  to  break 
off  anyhow.  Then  you  lose  sight  of  him  for  two  or  three 
seconds.  He ’s  rigged  up  a comical  arrangement  like  a cylin- 
der, where  the  pulpit  used  to  be.  It ’s  covered  with  old  crim- 
son cloth  and  edged  with  gold  braid,  and  looks  quite  solid. 
But  there ’s  a rope-ladder  hanging  down  the  middle  of  it. 
Coggin  slips  down  the  rungs — he ’s  as  thin  as  ever — just  like 
a monkey,  and  he  steps  out  to  meet  the  customer  as  if  there ’s 
no  such  thing  as  an  organ  in  the  world.” 

“That  doesn’t  look  like  neglecting  business.” 

“Yes,  it  does.  Ne  sntor  ultra  crepidam.  Only  bit  of  Latin 
I remember.  People  don’t  like  it.  How  would  you  relish  it 
yourself  if  you  had  a Bach ’s  fugue  banging  at  you  every  time 
you  went  to  buy  a kitchen  fender?” 

“I  don’t  agree  with  you,  Puffer.  If  this  has  been  going 
on  a long  time  I should  have  thought  it  ought  to  be  doing 
Coggin  a power  of  good,  and  that  collectors  of  antiques  must 
be  coming  from  far  and  near  to  buy  from  such  a unique 
shop-keeper.” 

‘ ‘ They  did,  until  lately.  But,  you  see,  Coggin ’s  got  rather 
a bad  name.  Strangers  hear  nothing  very  good  about  him 
when  they  enquire  the  way  to  his  chapel  now-a-days.  They 
either  give  him  a wide  berth,  or  just  drift  in  and  hear  him 


12  THE  HARE 

play  and  waste  his  time,  and  sail  out  without  buying  a shil- 
ling’s-worth. ” 

Edward  Redding  flushed  angrily.  “What  do  you  mean 
by  saying  Coggin ’s  got  a bad  name  ? ” he  demanded. 

“I  think  it  was  something  about  some  pictures.  He  sold 
some  oil  paintings  as  originals,  and  they  turned  out  to  be 
copies.  There  was  going  to  be  a law  suit;  but  he  paid  and 
hushed  it  up.” 

“Who  told  you  this?” 

“ ’Pon  my  word,  I forget.  Two  or  three  fellows.  Let  me 
see,  Rambury  told  me — and  Tranter — and — I forget  exactly, 
but  others  told  me  as  well.” 

“Good  heavens,  Puffer,  I ’m  astounded  at  you.  Were  you 
on  the  tow-path  that  afternoon  when  Coggin  chucked  Sniveller 
Currington  into  the  canal?” 

* ‘ Rather.  ’ ’ 

“That  was  the  first  time  we  called  Harry  Coggin  ‘Slogger’ 
Coggin.  And  why?  Because  he  began  by  knocking  down 
Rambury  and  Bully  Tranter  like  nine-pins,  though  they  were 
nearly  twice  his  size.  Are  you  believing  evil  of  Coggin  on 
such  testimony  as  theirs?” 

‘ ‘ I don ’t  see  why  not.  They  are  glad  to  see  him  in  disgrace, 
no  doubt,  but  that ’s  only  natural.  And  I ’m  sure  they  ’re 
not  the  sort  to  dare  to  slander  anybody  unless  there ’s  some- 
thing in  it.  They ’d  be  afraid  of  having  to  pay  damages,  or 
of  getting  a damned  good  thrashing.  Hang  it  all,  Teddie. 
Excuse  my  bluntness,  but  both  you  and  your  father  went  a 
bit  silly  over  that  boy  Coggin.  You  can’t  deny  it.  Indeed, 
we  all  lost  our  heads  a little  when  he  stood  up  to  Bully  Tranter, 
and  when  he  pitched  that  dirty  little  worm  Currington  into 
six  feet  of  water.  But  you  can’t  make  a silk  purse  out  of  a 
sow’s  ear.  Slogger  was  the  son  of  a canting  old-clo’  man, 
and  I ’m  afraid  it ’s  in  his  blood  to  cheat.  Leaving  Ram- 
bury and  Tranter  out  of  it,  I know  for  a fact  that  Coggin 


THE  DELIVERER  13 

put  down  hard  cash  to  hush  up  the  affair.  His  own  solicitor 
told  me  so.” 

“His  own  solicitor — told  you  so?” 

“Yes.  Woodley,  of  Woodley,  Baker  & Woodley.” 

“Hold  on.  Puffer.  Think.  How  does  it  strike  you  on 
second  thoughts?” 

“Strike  me?  Oh!  I see  what  you  mean.  But  come,  Ted. 
After  all,  this  fellow  Coggin — ” 

As  he  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  Edward  Redding  took  it 
over  and  said,  in  low  tones : 

“If  I make  a wrong  guess  at  your  meaning  you  will  put 
me  right.  I think  you  were  going  to  say  this  fellow  Coggin, 
after  all,  is  only  Coggin.  If  Woodley  had  been  acting  for 
you  or  me  he  would  have  felt  bound  either  to  hold  his  tongue 
about  our  affairs,  or  to  put  them  in  the  best  light.  But 
Coggin  is  only  Coggin — a joke,  a butt,  an  outcast.  I don’t 
doubt  that  Woodley  welcomed  him  as  a client,  and  charged 
the  full  ordinary  fees  or  more.  ’ ’ 

“Go  it,  Teddie.  In  future,  I shall  always  call  Slogger’s  old 
chapel  ‘St.  Coggin ’s.’  According  to  you,  he ’s  both  saint 
and  martyr.  Canonize  him,  if  you  must,  in  your  own  mind, 
but  I can  be  the  devil’s  advocate,  if  I want  to.” 

Redding  laid  his  hand  on  the  baronet’s  arm  and  said, 
sadly  and  earnestly:  “No.  You  can’t.  There  are  enough 
mean  curs  in  Bulford  to  take  the  devil’s  part  against  Coggin, 
without  you  joining  in.  Look  here.  Puffer,  I ’ll  confess. 
When  I asked,  a few  minutes  ago,  in  such  a casual  way,  about 
Slogger  Coggin,  perhaps  I wasn’t  quite  candid.  But  now 
I ’m  going  to  put  all  my  cards  on  the  table.  The  truth  is 
that  I ’ve  come  to  Bulford  to-day  expressly  on  account  of 
Coggin.  My  father  hears  from  him  every  three  months,  as 
regular  as  clockwork,  but  we  ’re  not  satisfied.  The  poor  devil 
always  writes  cheerfully;  yet  we  sniff  something  between 
the  lines.  He ’s  wretched  in  Bulford,  and  he ’s  missing  his 


14 


THE  HARE 


destiny.  My  plan  was  to  make  him  sell  up  and  clear  out. 
I ’ve  brought  some  tin  with  me  in  case  his  liabilities  exceed 
his  assets.  My  father  has  just  had  this  extra  bit  of  money 
left  him,  and  he  wants  Coggin  to  borrow  it  and  to  start  fresh 
in  another  town,  where  he  can  make  music  his  sole  profession.” 

“He  ’ll  jump  at  an  offer  like  that.” 

“We  shall  see.  But  surely  you  understand.  I can’t  make 
the  offer  till  we ’ve  settled  this  affair  you  have  mentioned — 
this  allegation  of  fraud.” 

“I  tell  you  it ’s  settled  already.  Dead  and  done  with.” 

Redding  drew  his  hand  away.  “Pardon  me,”  he  asked 
coldly.  “Is  Sir  George  Batwood  the  individual  I went  to 
school  with,  or  is  he  somebody  else?” 

“I ’m  not  here  to  be  preached  at,”  growled  Sir  George, 
reddening.  ‘ ‘ If  you  want  me  to  stay,  kindly  come  down  from 
your  high  horse.” 

“No.  I sha’n’t  come  down.  You  must  come  up.  You 
want  me  to  believe  you  sordid,  and  I won ’t.  If  you  had  been 
accused  of  dishonor,  and  if  you  had  been  cheated  into  what 
looks  like  a confession,  would  you  let  the  matter  rest  there? 
Coggin  cannot  leave  Bulford  till  his  detractors  have  eaten  their 
words.  ’ ’ 

“Confound  it,  Redding,  how  do  you  know  that  Coggin 
did  n’t  try  to  swindle  somebody  with  those  pictures?  You  ’re 
not  a judge  and  jury.” 

“I  ’ll  tell  you  how  I know.  If  somebody  met  me  and  said 
that  Puffer  Batwood  had  turned  out  a sneak  and  a coward, 
I should  tell  him  straight  that  he  was  a liar ; because  I know 
you  could  never  be  either.  It ’s  the  same  with  Coggin.  You 
are  a baronet,  and  he  is  an  old-clo’  man’s  boy;  but  it  makes 
no  difference.  Let  me  tell  you  just  a single  fact.  Before  my 
father  left  Bulford,  he  raised  a sum  of  money  for  Coggin ’s 
education.  The  cash  came  from  Lord  Bulcaster  and  others, 
and  it  was  paid  quarterly  through  solicitors,  not  as  a loan,  but 


THE  DELIVERER 


15 


as  an  out-and-out  gift.  Listen.  Harry  Coggin  has  repaid 
every  penny  of  that  money,  with  compound  interest,  and  it 
is  being  used  to  educate  other  poor  boys.  Is  that  the  act  of  a 
man  of  honor,  or  is  it  the  act  of  a cheat  ? ’ ’ 

“By  George!” 

“Puffer,  I swear  not  to  leave  Bulford  until  justice  has 
been  done.  I have  the  funds  and  the  leisure.  Whether  I 
have  the  ability,  events  will  shew.  Now,  I ’m  going  to  ask 
you  one  thing.  If  it  is  proved  to  your  satisfaction  that 
Coggin  has  been  falsely  accused,  will  you  stand  by  him  and 
by  me?” 

Sir  George  whistled  uneasily.  He  poured  out  another 
glass  of  wine  and  drank  it.  At  last  he  replied : ‘ ‘ Ted,  I ’m 
not  a hero.  I tell  you  candidly  that  I wish  you  had  run 
against  somebody  else  this  evening,  instead  of  me.  Now, 
why  did  you  think  Sylvia  remained  unmarried  till  she  was 
twenty-six?  Her  age  is  no  secret.” 

‘ ‘ I don ’t  doubt  Miss  Sylvia  was  waiting  for  you.  ’ ’ 

“Thank  you.  But  let  us  be  serious.  Sylvia  had  many 
offers,  but  her  mother’s  ideas  were  high.  Two  suitors  were 
cold-shouldered  because  their  families  were  connected  with 
trade.  Sylvia’s  mama  declares  that  she  has  simply  thrown 
herself  away  on  me,  a poor  baronet.  And  here ’s  Teddie  Red- 
ding, like  a bolt  from  the  blue,  suddenly  demanding  that  I 
shall  associate  myself  with  a marine-store  dealer’s  son,  in  a 
public  row.” 

“You  sha’n’t  be  dragged  into  anything  public.  Promise 
me,  Puffer,  old  fellow.” 

After  swallowing  more  wine,  Sir  George  said  gloomily: 
“I  promise  you  my  help,  behind  the  scenes.  But  if  you  can 
find  some  other  Don  Quixote  instead  of  me,  for  heaven’s  sake 
let  me  off.  Great  Jupiter,  a quarter  to  eight ! Twelve  min- 
utes to  catch  my  train.” 


CHAPTER  II 


EDWARD  REDDING  rose  so  early  on  his  first  morn- 
ing at  Bulford  that  he  found  the  entrance-hall  of 
“The  Bulcaster  Arms”  empty,  and  the  big  front  door 
still  shut.  Having  drawn  the  bolts  and  turned  the  great  key 
very  gently,  he  stepped  out  into  bright  sunshine.  Not  even  a 
milkman  was  in  sight. 

His  walk  through  one  deserted  street  after  another  sad- 
dened the  young  man.  Many  fine  old  gabled  houses  had  been 
pulled  down  to  make  room  for  emporia,  establishments,  and 
commodious  premises,  with  large  sheets  of  plate  glass  below, 
and  silly  gothic  or  feeble  renaissance  facades  above.  Most 
of  the  delightful  little  tuck-shops  and  book-shops  had  changed 
hands,  and  their  windows  were  filled  with  up-to-date  stocks, 
conventionally  displayed. 

He  remembered  every  alley,  every  turning ; and  therefore  he 
found  himself  within  ten  minutes,  standing  under  a gateway 
almost  opposite  the  building  he  was  seeking.  The  words 
“Wesleyan  Chapel”  could  still  be  seen,  incised  in  a stone  tablet 
over  the  door.  Below  them  had  been  fixed  a neatly-framed  and 
boldly-painted  board,  bearing  the  inscription : 

HENRY  COGGIN 

DEALER  IN  FURNITURE 
AND  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENTS 

Redding  shrank  back  into  the  shadow.  On  the  further 
side  of  the  hot  belt  of  sunlight,  a tall,  thin  young  man  in  a 
coarse  shirt,  corduroy  trousers,  and  hob-nailed  boots  was 

16 


THE  DELIVERER 


17 


crouching  over  a gay  rug.  He  held  one  corner  of  the  rug 
in  his  hand,  and  it  soon  became  apparent  that  he  was  mend- 
ing it  with  an  upholsterer’s  needle.  He  must  have  been 
engaged  on  the  job  for  some  time,  for  within  two  or  three 
minutes  of  Redding’s  arrival,  he  shook  the  rug  with  an  air 
of  satisfaction  and  carried  it  back  into  the  chapel.  A few 
minutes  later  he  came  out  again,  carrying  an  arm-chair,  and 
began  to  repair  one  of  the  castors.  Both  the  rug-darning  and 
the  chair-mending  were  accompanied  by  music.  At  first  the 
young  man  whistled;  then  he  sang  a little;  and  finally  he 
hummed.  Whistling,  singing,  and  humming  were  all  so  soft 
and  reticent  that  Edward  Redding,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
lane,  would  have  failed  to  hear  them  if  the  morning  had  not 
been  breathless  and  the  neighboring  streets  clear  of  traffic. 
The  fragments  of  the  melody  which  reached  him  were  un- 
familiar, and  he  would  not  have  called  them  tunes. 

During  his  work  with  the  needle,  the  tall,  thin  young  man ’s 
back  was  turned  towards  Redding,  and  when  he  emerged  from 
the  chapel  with  the  arm-chair,  his  face  was  hidden  by  the 
bulky  load ; but  there  could  not  be  a moment ’s  doubt  that  this 
was  Harry  Coggin.  The  coarse  garments  could  not  hide  their 
wearer’s  litheness ; and  his  every  movement  was  full  of  the  old 
quick,  sure,  attentive  mastery  which  had  been  so  remarkable 
in  him  as  a lad.  Yet  there  was  some  immense  change.  That 
Harry  Coggin  should  have  ceased  to  be  a boy  was  only  natural ; 
but  somehow  he  seemed  to  have  outgrown  his  young  manhood. 
Although  the  strong  shoulders  were  unbent,  Edward  Red- 
ding felt  that  the  strange  and  lonely  soul  was  bowed  down 
under  an  almost  intolerable  load  of  disappointment  and  humil- 
iation. Those  softly  hummed  and  faintly  sung  melodies  were 
not  the  blithe  and  bird-like  outbursts  of  a workman  happy  in 
his  work.  They  were  like  croonings  over  hopes  long  dead. 

As  Harry  stepped  briskly  back  into  the  chapel  for  some 
screw  or  tool,  Edward  Redding  slipped  out  of  his  hiding- 


18 


THE  HARE 


place  and  took  the  first  turning,  so  as  to  escape  unobserved. 
He  could  not  have  controlled  his  feelings  sufficiently  to  speak 
with  Coggin  at  that  moment.  Besides,  he  knew  that  it  would 
be  more  considerate  to  postpone  the  meeting  until  the  cordu- 
roy trousers  and  the  hob-nailed  boots  had  given  place  to  less 
rude  attire. 

The  pavements  began  to  echo  under  the  noisy  tread  of  jour- 
neymen going  to  their  work.  In  the  High  Street,  a cart  laden 
with  sacks  of  flour  went  grinding  and  creaking  past.  Red- 
ding did  not  wish  to  be  recognized,  so  he  chose  a narrow  street 
which  led  to  the  rectory  and  to  St.  Michael’s  Church.  Round 
his  old  home  the  trees  and  shrubs  had  been  encouraged  to 
grow  so  thickly  that  nothing  could  be  seen  of  the  rectory,  save 
the  gable-end  and  a twisted  chimney.  He  entered  the  church 
and  saw,  with  deep  pleasure,  that  his  father’s  successor  had 
been  carrying  on  the  work  of  restoration  with  zeal  and  with 
admirable  discretion.  A wooden  singing-gallery  no  longer 
blocked  up  the  glorious  wheel-window  in  the  north  transept, 
and  the  cruciform  ground-plan  of  the  church  was  once  more 
revealed.  Redding  made  his  way  to  the  Denniker  chantry. 
Time  had  mellowed  the  new  stone  and  the  heraldic  colors; 
and  there  were  his  father’s  initials,  still  plain  to  see,  on  the 
tiny  disc  of  brass. 

At  breakfast  the  young  man  felt  ashamed  of  his  appetite, 
until  he  remembered  that  twelve  hours  had  passed  since  his 
meal  with  Sir  George.  Eased  in  conscience,  he  helped  himself 
once  more  to  the  kidneys  and  bacon  and  mushrooms  and 
poured  out  another  cup  of  coffee,  better  than  any  he  had 
drunk  in  Spain.  Having  consumed  these  good  things,  he 
drifted  out  into  the  courtyard,  where  there  was  a cheerful 
noise  of  splashing  water,  of  stamping  hoofs,  of  jingling  har- 
ness, of  ostler’s  chaff;  and  there  he  made  and  lit  a cigarette, 
as  he  had  learned  to  do  in  Spain.  Cigarettes,  however,  were 
a novelty  in  Bulford,  and  a gathering  crowd  of  gaping  stable- 


THE  DELIVERER 


19 


boys  drove  him  away.  He  left  the  yard  by  the  side  entrance 
in  Coldwell  Lane.  As  the  lower  end  of  this  narrow  way  had 
been  in  his  boyhood  one  of  the  quietest  parts  of  Bulford,  he 
counted  on  smoking  a couple  of  cigarettes  in  peace ; but  almost 
immediately  he  came  face  to  face  with  Rambury  Primus  and 
Rambury  Secundus. 

These  frost-bitten  young  gentlemen,  like  their  bloodless 
father,  knew  how  to  maintain  inscrutability  of  countenance. 
Not  giving  Redding  time  to  notice  the  dull  sparks  of  annoyance 
which  kindled  for  half  a twinkling  in  the  depths  of  his  fishy 
eyes,  Rambury  Secundus  became  fluent  with  cordial  greetings. 

“What  brings  you  to  Bulford,  Mr.  Redding?”  asked  Ram- 
bury Primus,  after  these  friendly  interchanges  were  finished. 

“Important  business,”  Redding  answered,  rather  coldly. 

“We  won’t  keep  you  from  it,”  retorted  Primus,  holding  out 
a clammy  hand. 

“Especially  as  we  are  late  for  important  business  of  our 
own,”  added  Secundus. 

When  they  w7ere  round  the  corner,  Redding  threw  away 
his  cigarette,  and  walked  boldly  towards  the  principal  streets. 
Now  that  the  Ramburys  had  seen  him  there  was  nothing  to 
be  gained  by  lying  low.  In  Market  Street  he  recognized  two 
or  three  old  friends.  Others  he  might  have  passed  by  without 
knowing  them;  for  many  young  men  of  Bulford  favored 
mustaches,  whiskers,  and  even  long  beards.  Redding  himself, 
however,  was  clean-shaven,  and  one  bearded  man  after  an- 
other pounced  upon  him,  instantly  remembering  the  frank  and 
pleasant  young  face. 

Gratefully  declining  half-a-dozen  offers  of  brandy-and-soda 
and  of  sherry  and  biscuits,  Edward  managed  to  extricate  him- 
self from  the  bustle  of  the  main  streets,  and  to  turn,  all  alone, 
into  the  crooked  ways  which  ran  down  to  Coggin’s  warehouse. 
The  chapel  doors  stood  wide  open,  and  there  was  nobody  with 
whom  to  parley. 


20 


THE  HARE 


As  Redding  entered  the  scanty  vestibule  a blare  of  fierce 
music  burst  full  in  his  face.  It  was  as  if  the  great  scorching 
tongue  of  a prairie  fire  had  suddenly  licked  him  from  top  to 
toe.  For  a moment  he  was  stupefied.  Then  he  remembered 
what  Batwood  had  told  him,  and  he  strode  forward  into  the 
chapel.  The  savage  chords  went  bumping  on,  heedless  of  the 
little  staccato  sounds  which  pattered  and  rattled  all  over  them, 
as  sharp  and  stinging  as  hailstones.  Suddenly  the  hulking 
towers  of  harmony  sank  down,  like  palaces  built  on  sand,  and  a 
tender  strain  brought  the  extemporization  to  an  almost  inau- 
dible close  on  the  soft  full  chord  of  the  key-note.  Ten  seconds 
later,  Coggin  came  quietly  along  the  floor  of  the  chapel  to 
meet  his  visitor. 

“It ’s  Redding,  Teddie  Redding,”  said  Edward  in  a loud 
whisper.  “Be  quick.  If  anybody  has  followed  me,  is  there 
a window  we  could  spy  him  from?  Hurry  up.” 

‘ ‘ The  roof,  ’ ’ said  Coggin.  Although  he  had  turned  pale  at 
the  sight  of  Redding,  he  recovered  himself  in  a flash,  and  be- 
came his  old,  nimble,  efficient  self  at  the  suggestion  of  danger. 

They  scrambled  up  a comer  stairway.  Progress  was  dif- 
ficult because  the  stairs  had  been  used  for  the  storage  of 
hundreds  of  odds  and  ends,  and  there  was  a clear  space  only 
a few  inches  wide  in  the  middle. 

‘ ‘ Keep  your  head  down  and  look  through  the  round  hole  in 
the  gable,”  said  Coggin.  “If  there ’s  nobody,  dodge  over  the 
slates  and  look  through  the  hole  on  the  other  side.  You  can 
see  both  Chapel  Street  and  Weighbridge  Lane.” 

As  Redding  squinted  through  the  first  hole  he  grinned 
jovially.  Then  he  popped  up  his  head,  and  shouted  out  at 
the  top  of  his  voice : 

“H’llo,  Mr.  Rambury.  What  about  your  important  busi- 
ness?” 

Rambury  Secundus  came  out  from  an  archway  with  un- 
abated dignity  and  unruffled  composure.  “My  business  has 


THE  DELIVERER 


21 


been  attended  to,”  he  said  icily.  “I  never  waste  time.  By 
the  way,  Mr.  Redding,  I hope  your  own  important  business 
progresses  satisfactorily.  ’ ’ 

“Quite,  thanks.  I ’m  engaged  upon  it  now.  So  good 
morning,  Mr.  Rambury.” 

Coggin  led  the  way  down.  When  they  were  once  more  on 
the  floor  of  the  chapel,  Redding  asked:  “Are  we  alone  here?” 

“Yes,”  Coggin  answered.  “My  assistant  is  out  with  the 
cart,  and  no  customer  will  call  so  early.” 

“Not  so  fast.  I ’m  a customer  myself.  I ’ve  come  to  buy 
your  entire  stock — your  lease  and  the  whole  thing,  lock,  stock, 
and  barrel.  What  is  the  price  ? ’ ’ 

The  furniture  dealer  wheeled  forward  a vast  arm-chair, 
luxuriously  padded  and  covered  with  dark  green  leather. 
As  his  visitor  settled  himself  comfortably  in  the  soft  depths, 
Harry  Coggin  knew  that  a crisis  was  at  hand.  He  divined 
that  Edward  Redding’s  words  were  the  first  rumblings  of  an 
eruption  which  was  about  to  overwhelm  his  old  landmarks 
and  to  change  the  whole  configuration  of  his  life.  His  usually 
firm  voice  shook  a little  as  he  gripped  the  back  of  the  chair 
and  said : 

“First  of  all,  Mr.  Edward,  I ask  leave  to  say  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you,  and  to  enquire  about  your  parents.  ’ 

“My  parents  are  at  Barcelona,  and  they  are  fairly  well.  I 
am  at  ‘The  Bulcaster  Arms,’  with  time  on  my  hands.  That 
is  all  you  need  to  know  about  me  and  mine.  Now,  about 
yourself.  We  won’t  beat  about  the  bush.  My  father  and  I 
aren’t  satisfied  with  your  letters,  Harry  Coggin.  You  dwell 
always  on  the  bright  side,  but  you  don’t  deceive  us.  I ve 
come  to  Bulford  with  a firm  resolve  to  root  you  up  and  to 
transplant  you.  There  is  no  success  and  no  happiness  for 
you  here — that  is,  unless  you  have  some  affair  of  the  heart. 

“The  heart?” 

“Yes.  Are  you  engaged,  affianced,  betrothed?  Or  hoping 


22 


THE  HARE 


to  be?  Are  you  wooing,  courting,  keeping  company?  Have 
you  a sweetheart,  an  inamorata,  a young  lady  ? If  so,  it  will 
make  a difference.  ’ ’ 

“Oh,  no,  Mr.  Edward.” 

“Don’t  say  ‘oh,  no’  like  that,  as  if  I ’ve  asked  whether 
you ’ve  a glass  eye.  You  ’re  twenty- four.  Still,  I ’m  glad 
to  hear  you  have  no  entanglement.  Now,  tell  me.  Just  be- 
fore I left  Barcelona,  we  had  a letter  from  you  saying  that 
Mr.  Daplyn  had  retired  from  the  St.  Michael’s  organ,  and  he 
had  recommended  you  as  his  successor.  Have  they  given  you 
the  post?” 

“No.  Mr.  Duck  is  appointed.” 

“Duck?  Duck  who  used  to  play  at  St.  Peter’s?  Why, 
he ’s  no  good  at  all.” 

“They  have  given  him  the  appointment,  Mr.  Edward.” 

Redding  paused  to  think.  He  was  vexed  by  the  reiterated 
“Mr.  Edward,”  and  by  Coggin’s  precise  and  deferential 
phrases.  Yet,  on  reflection,  he  felt  that  there  was  indeed  an 
immense  difference  in  their  social  status,  and  that  they  would 
understand  each  other  best  as  “Mr.  Edward”  and  “Coggin.” 
Changing  the  subject  abruptly,  he  enquired : 

“When  your  father  was  killed  in  that  frightful  collision  on 
the  Demehaven  line,  why  did  you  claim  nothing  from  the 
railway  ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I could  n ’t  have  taken  money  to  make  up  for  my  father.  ’ ’ 

“Railway  companies  keep  a reserve  for  such  claims.  The 
reserve  is  replenished  with  part  of  the  money  we  pay  for 
fares.  You  were  entitled  to  compensation.” 

“I  was  not  a loser,  Mr.  Edward,  in  a pecuniary  sense. 
When  my  father  was  gone,  I sold  the  yard  and  the  old  busi- 
ness at  a very  fair  price.” 

‘ ‘ In  your  letters  you  always  say  that  business  is  good.  Have 
you  put  money  by?  Of  course,  there ’s  a lot  of  stock  here. 
Do  you  owe  money  on  it?” 


THE  DELIVERER 


23 


“Not  a penny.  And  I should  have  five  hundred  pounds  in 
the  bank  if — ” 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  so  Redding  asked: 

“The  business  makes  progress?  ” 

Coggin  loosened  his  hold  on  the  chair-back  and  turned 
away.  The  inbred  pride  which  underlay  his  habit  of  humility 
made  him  hate  to  confess  failure ; and  he  was  still  more  upset 
at  the  thought  that  his  answer  must  disappoint  Edward  Red- 
ding, and  that  offers  of  pecuniary  aid  were  imminent.  But 
he  gave  a truthful  answer,  saying  quietly: 

“It  has  gone  down  lately.  All  the  same,  I make  a com- 
fortable living/ 9 

To  Coggin’s  great  surprise  his  visitor  jumped  up  and  ex- 
claimed warmly:  “Forgive  me,  Slogger.  I oughtn’t  to  have 
asked  that  question.  It  was  not  frank,  because  I learned  last 
night  that  things  were  not  well  with  you.  Puffer  Batwood 
— Sir  George  Batwood — told  me.  He  didn’t  know  the  de- 
tails. Tell  me  all  about  the  trouble,  and  we  ’ll  get  you  out 
of  it.” 

“You  have  heard?”  Coggin  asked  in  dismay.  “Mr.  Ed- 
ward, I give  you  my  solemn  word  that  I have  done  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of;  no,  and  nothing  that  you  or  Mr.  Redding 
would  blame  me  for.  I swear  it.” 

“Swear  nothing,”  returned  Redding,  even  more  warmly 
than  before.  “And  as  for  your  solemn  word,  give  it  me  when 
I ask  for  it.  Slogger,  I know  you  are  as  honest  as  the  noon- 
day sun.  If  you  seem  to  stand  in  a bad  light,  I am  sure  that 
some  damnable  scoundrels  have  pushed  you  into  it.  Such 
curs  as  the  Ramburys,  for  instance.  You  heard  what  I said 
to  Rambury  just  now?  I caught  him  sneaking.  I deliber- 
ately insulted  him.  In  other  words,  I took  your  side,  Slogger, 
before  knowing  the  facts  of  the  case.  Could  I give  any 
stronger  proof  of  loyalty  and  confidence  than  that?  But 
come.  Let ’s  both  sit  down  in  a quiet  comer  and  have  it  out.  ” 


24 


THE  HARE 


He  strode  along  the  chapel  until  he  found  two  heavy  oak 
chairs  and  a Chippendale  escritoire,  set  out  on  a small  Persian 
carpet,  behind  a five-fold  Chinese  screen.  When  they  were 
seated,  he  said : 

“I  know  nothing  more  than  this,  that  you  made  a blunder 
in  buying  and  selling  some  pictures.  Go  ahead.  ’ ’ 

Coggin  replied:  “I  was  successful  and  very  happy  until 
about  two  years  ago.  You  know  that  your  father  gave  up  the 
living  of  Bulford  in  ’52,  when  I was  twelve  years  old.  I 
stuck  to  my  Latin,  as  I had  promised,  till  I could  read  any 
Latin  author  at  sight.  Not  that  I neglected  my  parents’ 
business.  I worked  at  that  nine  hours  every  day;  but  some- 
how there  was  plenty  of  time  for  study,  although  I gave  most 
of  my  leisure  to  music.  It  sounds  conceited,  Mr.  Edward,  but 
I want  you  to  hear  the  exact  truth.  On  my  seventeenth  birth- 
day, Mr.  Daplyn  said  I knew  as  much  as  he  did  himself  about 
counterpoint  and  harmony  and  fugue.  And  although  he  used 
to  pick  holes  in  my  compositions,  he  often  played  them  in 
church.  ’ ’ 

“Did  the  congregation  know  they  were  yours?” 

“No.  He  said  it  wouldn’t  do.  And  events  have  proved 
he  was  right.  After  my  father  was  killed,  we  sold  the  marine- 
store,  and  we  did  well  in  business.  My  mother  was  very  clever. 
Most  of  our  profits  we  invested  in  good  furniture  and  cut- 
glass  and  musical  instruments,  but  even  then  we  had  more 
money  than  we  wanted  in  the  bank.  That  was  why  I felt 
justified  in  publishing  some  of  my  music.” 

“And  you  lost  a hundred  pounds.  You  told  my  father  so 
in  your  letter.  But  let  us  skip  that,  for  the  moment.  Later 
on  you  shall  tell  me  about  the  music.” 

“I  have  mentioned  the  music,  Mr.  Edward,  for  a reason. 
You  see,  my  mother  and  I had  kept  to  ourselves  till  I was 
twenty-one.  On  fine  Sundays  we  often  drove  out  to  Skil- 
bury.  Some  of  the  farmers’  wives,  who  wouldn’t  know 


THE  DELIVERER 


25 


mother  when  she  was  a rag-and-bone  dealer’s  wife,  were  quite 
anxious  to  prove  that  they  were  her  distant  relations  as  soon 
as  we  could  show  a horse-and-trap,  and  clothes  as  good  as 
theirs.  But  we  made  no  friends  in  Bulford. 

“Mr.  Edward,  your  father  used  to  write  to  me  telling  me 
to  cultivate  more  ambition,  and  not  to  hide  myself.  It  is 
true  that  I was  entirely  without  ambition  at  that  time,  because 
I was  perfectly  happy.  Our  little  home  was  so  snug.  With 
business  increasing  every  year,  we  did  not  stint  ourselves  of 
cheerful  fires  and  good  candles.  At  the  workshop  we  were 
always  accumulating  odds  and  ends  of  old  wood;  and  from 
October  to  May  there  was  always  a blazing  hearth  at  supper- 
time.  From  eight  till  half -past  nine  I used  to  read  aloud  to 
my  mother,  or  play  the  piano.  Books  often  went  dirt  cheap 
at  auctions,  and  we  read  one  novel  every  month,  except  when 
we  found  some  good  biography  or  book  of  travels.  ’ 9 

“I  want  you  to  come  to  the  affair  of  the  pictures,”  said 
Edward  Redding,  kindly. 

“Iam  coming  to  it.  We  had  no  friend,  except  Mr.  Daplyn 
who  came  in  now  and  then  for  a chat  and  a glass  of  wine. 
But,  after  I took  this  chapel  over,  I began  to  have  business 
acquaintances.  I am  a valuer.  One  day  I was  called  to  value 
a houseful  of  furniture  in  Victoria  Park.  There  was  a sheriff’s 
officer  in  possession.  Old  Mr.  Rambury  met  me  in  the  hall ; 
I never  knew  why.  The  things  were  worth  less  than  four 
hundred  pounds,  but  Mr.  Rambury  took  me  on  one  side  and 
said  I had  made  a slip,  and  that  no  doubt  I meant  seven  hun- 
dred. I stuck  to  four  hundred,  and  he  was  very  angry.  Next 
day  a strange  lawyer  arrived  in  Bulford,  with  a valuer  from 
London,  and  they  valued  the  things  at  three  hundred  and 
fifty.  The  London  valuer  came  to  see  me  in  the  afternoon, 
and  was  very  polite  and  pleasant ; but  old  Mr.  Rambury  cut 
me  dead  in  the  street.  A little  while  after  that  I was  sent 
for  again  to  another  house.  Mr.  Rambury  met  me  quite  cor- 


26 


THE  HARE 


> 


dially.  You  know  lie  was  always  getting  special  jobs,  such 
as  liquidating  bankrupts’  affairs,  or  realizing  estates  under 
wills.  This  tune  he  chaffed  me,  and  said  that,  as  I was  so  fond 
of  cutting  him  in  half,  it  might  save  my  time  if  he  told  me 
that  the  furniture  was  worth  twelve  hundred  pounds.  ‘So 
that  will  be  six  hundred,  Mr.  Cogging  he  said.  He  laughed, 
like  geese  cackling.  The  stuff  was  really  worth  over  a thous- 
and; in  fact,  the  parties  couldn’t  agree,  so  there  was  an  auc- 
tion which  brought  in  a thousand,  clear  of  expenses.” 

“We  are  a long  time  coming  to  the  pictures,  Slogger,”  said 
Redding,  somewhat  impatiently.  “You  used  to  be  a boy  of 
few  words.” 

“I  am  very  sorry,”  Coggin  replied,  flushing  a little.  “But 
you  must  needs  understand  that  these  two  clashes  with  old 
Mr.  Rambury,  and  several  similar  affairs  with  other  people  in 
Bulford,  seemed  to  revive  all  the  animosity  that  burned  so 
strongly  against  me  thirteen  years  ago,  when  I won  the  Rob- 
son Scholarship.” 

“I  understand,”  said  Redding.  “There  has  always  been  a 
little  gang  in  Bulford  intriguing  together  to  get  all  the  pick- 
ings. My  father  often  calls  old  Rambury  ‘ the  Robber  Chief. ’ 
You  were  the  disobliging  cat  that  wouldn’t  pull  the  chestnuts 
out  of  the  fire  for  them ; so  they  decided  to  tie  a brick  round 
your  neck  and  drown  you.  ’ ’ 

Coggin  darted  a grateful  look  at  his  friend.  “You  have 
summed  it  up  exactly,”  he  said.  And,  after  a long  pause,  he 
burst  out  bitterly:  “But  no.  They  didn’t  try  to  drown  me. 
They  put  poison  in  my  food.  That ’s  what  they  did,  through 
the  pictures.  They  tried  to  poison  me  through  my  business, 
my  living.” 

“What  happened?” 

“One  day  young  Mr.  Venn-Venning  came  here — ” 

“Freddie  Venn- Yenning?  Let  me  see,  what  did  I hear 


THE  DELIVERER  27 

about  him  last  night  ? I remember.  Bankrupt.  Squandered 
two  fortunes.  Decamped  to  Boulogne.’ ’ 

“I  know  that  now,  Mr.  Edward,  but  I didn’t  know  it  the 
day  he  came  here.  He  was  expensively  dressed — ” 

“ Bad  sign.” 

“Very  high  in  his  manner. ” 

“Worse  still.” 

‘ ‘ He  ordered  me  about  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He  needed 
some  ready  cash.  Would  I buy  two  pictures,  by  Constable? 
They  were  studies,  not  finished  paintings,  so  he  did  not  like 

them.  He  could  only  endure  properly  finished  works  on  his 
walls.  The  pictures  had  come  to  him  through  an  uncle.  ’ ’ 

“You  ought  to  have  declined  them  with  thanks,  there  and 

then.  Confound  it,  Slogger,  no  man  can  know  everything, 
not  even  you.  Picture-dealing  is  a ticklish  job.  You  ’re  a 
Latin  scholar  and  a musician.  Isn’t  that  enough?” 

As  Redding  posed  this  question,  a silvery  little  bell  tinkled 
just  over  his  head.  This  meant  that  a customer  had  entered 
the  chapel,  and  had  set  in  motion  a hidden  spring  and  a 
wire  which  rang  the  bell.  Coggin  went  forward  to  meet  the 
new-comer ; but  he  returned  a moment  later  and  said  quietly : 

“You  will  excuse  me  for  a few  minutes.  The  pictures  are 
on  that  wall  over  there,  between  those  bookcases.  To 
draw  the  curtains,  pull  the  cord  downwards.  ’ ’ 

Crossing  the  floor,  Edward  Redding  found  himself  in  a 
wide  recess,  which  had  been  formed  by  setting  two  lofty  and 
massive  bookcases  at  right  angles  to  the  chapel  wall.  The 
shelves  of  these  cases  held  statuettes,  vases,  ivories,  and  old 
china.  A good  light  struck  into  the  recess  from  an  upper 
window  on  the  north  side  of  the  chapel.  He  tugged  a silken 
cord,  and  the  curtains  puckered  away,  revealing  two  paintings, 
in  frames  which  were  indisputably  old.  Redding  could  not 
repress  a whistle  of  surprise.  The  larger  canvas  appeared  to 


28 


THE  HARE 


be  a bold  and  lively  study  for  Constable’s  “ Leaping  Horse,” 
while  the  other  shewed  a tree-girt  harvest-field  in  bright  morn- 
ing light,  after  a shower  of  rain.  If  they  were  not  Constable ’s 
own  work,  these  pictures  were  forgeries  of  almost  incredible 
cleverness. 

Redding’s  first  scrutiny  was  barely  finished  when  the  cus- 
tomer went  away,  and  Coggin  returned.  “You  are  an  artist 
yourself,  Mr.  Edward,”  he  said  anxiously,  “I  know  that  you 
have  brought  at  least  two  forgotten  masterpieces  to  light  in 
out-of-the-way  places  in  Spain  and  Hungary.  And  please  re- 
member that  I believed  Mr.  Venn-Venning  to  be  an  honest 
gentleman.  I had  read  in  the  newspapers  that  he  had  in- 
herited a great  deal  of  money,  and  a grand  house  full  of 
works  of  art.  Was  I an  utter  simpleton?” 

c ‘ 1 still  think,  ’ ’ said  Redding  slowly,  as  he  moved  back  from 
the  wall  without  taking  his  gaze  off  the  canvases,  “that  you 
ought  to  have  referred  Mr.  Venn-Venning  to  a picture  dealer. 
But  I will  be  candid.  In  the  circumstances  you  describe,  I 
should  myself  have  been  deceived  by  these  paintings.  Now 
finish  the  story.” 

“I  did  just  what  you  say  I ought  to  have  done.  I referred 
him  to  a London  dealer,  and  said  he  would  get  a better  price 
that  way.  He  flared  up  and  swore,  and  said  the  dealers  were 
thieves.  After  trying  to  discourage  him  in  every  way  from 
the  sale,  at  last  I gave  in.  The  price  he  asked  was  a hundred 
guineas,  and  I only  beat  him  down  to  a hundred  pounds.” 

“Hard  cash  down?” 

“Yes.  It  is  usual  in  this  kind  of  business,  so  I keep  a 
reserve  of  money  in  a strong  box.  Our  conversation  took  place 
at  this  very  escritoire,  where  you  and  I are  standing  now. 
I still  felt  uneasy  and  out  of  my  depth ; so  before  handing  him 
the  gold,  I was  determined  that  his  receipt  should  be  explicit. 
I opened  the  lowest  drawer  in  the  escritoire — mark  this,  Mr. 
Edward,  because  it  is  important — and  took  out  a sheet  of 


THE  DELIVERER  29 

my  best  paper  and  an  envelope.  Here  are  the  words  I dic- 
tated to  him.” 

Coggin  picked  up  a piece  of  paper,  and  while  Redding  looked 
over  his  shoulder,  he  wrote  quickly: 

Received  of  Henry  Coggin  one  hundred  pounds  sterling 
in  full  payment  for  two  oil-paintings  (a  canal-bank  and  a 
harvest-field)  by  John  Constable,  R.A.,  formerly  the  prop- 
erty of  my  uncle. 

“Excellent,”  exclaimed  Redding.  “And  Venn-Venning 
signed?” 

“Not  on  the  instant.  At  first  he  said:  ‘After  all,  perhaps 
I ought  not  to  sell  ’em.’  I was  relieved  at  that,  and  I told 
him  so.  But,  just  then,  the  bell  rang,  and  a customer  came 
in.  He  made  up  his  mind  all  of  a sudden.  ‘I  came  to  sell 
’em,  and  they  shall  be  sold,’  he  said.  He  signed  the  receipt, 
and  took  the  money.  I put  the  receipt  in  this  top  drawer  and 
he  followed  me  towards  the  lobby,  laughing  and  talking.  He 
had  wished  me  good-day,  and  I was  busy  with  my  customer, 
when  he  ran  back  and  said,  ‘My  gloves.’  He  found  his  gloves 
on  the  escritoire,  and  went  off.  That ’s  the  last  I ’ve  seen  of 
him.” 

“Great — God,”  said  Redding.  “Freddie  Venn-Venning 
not  only  a cheat,  but  a thief?  I can  hardly  believe  it.  You 
mean,  he  stole  the  receipt  ? But  tell  the  tale  your  own  way.  ’ ’ 
“ Half-an-hour  afterwards,  I opened  the  drawer.  There 
was  my  envelope.  I peeped  inside  and  recognized  my  docu- 
ment, without  having  to  unfold  the  whole  sheet.  It  was  trans- 
ferred at  once  to  the  strong  box.  That  evening,  I began  to 
feel  much  pleased  with  my  bargain.  It  was  more  for  my  own 
pleasure  than  for  selling  them  that  I arranged  the  recess 
where  they  are  hanging  now.  But,  three  days  later,  Mr. 
Tranter  came  here  to  buy  some  cut-glass  decanters,  and  he 
saw  the  pictures.  There  was  no  curtain  then.” 

“Which  Mr.  Tranter?  Not  Bully  Tranter,  as  we  used  to 


30 


THE  HARE 


call  him — the  boy  you  knocked  down  along  with  Rambury 
Primus  on  the  canal  bank.” 

“The  same  gentleman.  I admit  I was  surprised  to  see 
him.  But,  after  all,  it ’s  thirteen  years  since  I knocked  him 
down,  so  he  could  forgive  and  forget.  He  bought  two  inexpen- 
sive decanters,  and  then  he  asked  about  the  pictures.  He 
said:  Air.  Albert  Rambury  ought  to  see  these,’  and  the  next 
day  he  brought  Mr.  Albert  here.” 

“Albert  is  Rambury  Secundus — the  one  I spoke  to  this 
morning  from  your  roof  ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.  I was  not  very  glad  to  see  him  when  he  came  with 
Mr.  Tranter.  You  see,  Mr.  Albert  had  already  been  against 
me;  partly  because  his  father  hates  the  sight  of  me;  partly 
because  he  married  a Miss  Currington — ” 

“Pardon  my  reminding  you  of  all  your  assaults  and  bat- 
teries; you  mean  a sister  of  Sniveller  Currington,  whom  you 
pitched  into  the  canal  ? ’ ’ 

“No.  A cousin.  But  the  main  reason  why  Mr.  Albert  de- 
tests me  is  a curious  jealousy.  He  sets  up  to  be  the  young 
leader  of  Bulford’s  music  and  art.  He  collects  engravings. 
And  he  wants  to  succeed  Mr.  Daplyn  as  conductor  to  the 
Choral  Society,  although  he  could  not  read  a full  score  to 
save  his  life.  He  paints  a little,  and  plays  the  piano  a little, 
and  has  a thin  tenor  voice.  When  I published  my  music,  he 
was  very  angry,  and  he  wrote  the  sneering  paragraph  in  The 
Bulford  Courier.  And  I believe  it  was  Mr.  Albert  who 
wrecked  my  concerts.” 

“Concerts?  What  concerts?  No.  We  ’ll  have  that  an- 
other time.  Hurry  up  with  the  story.  I see  a glimmer  of 
light.” 

“Mr.  Albert  looked  at  the  pictures  and  asked  how  much  I 
wanted  for  the  larger  of  the  two.  As  I didn’t  wish  to  do 
business  with  him,  I said  a hundred  guineas.  It  was  the  better 
picture  as  well  as  the  larger,  but  I would  have  taken  eighty 


THE  DELIVERER 


31 


pounds  in  the  ordinary  course.  Well,  he  didn’t  haggle  at  all. 
He  paid  me  cash,  and  sent  Mr.  Tranter  for  a fly  to  carry  the 
picture  away.  He  asked  me  for  an  invoice ; but  all  the  Ram- 
burys  are  methodical,  so  I wasn’t  surprised  at  that.  The  in- 
voice was  for  ‘an  oil-painting,  Canal  Scene,  by  J.  Constable, 
R.A.,  in  gold  frame.’  I receipted  it,  and  he  put  it  in  his 
pocket-book.” 

“Go  on,  go  on,”  said  Redding  eagerly. 

“A  few  days  later,  two  perfect  strangers  came  to  see  the 
other  picture.  I wondered  how  they  had  heard  it  was  here; 
but  they  were  very  stiff,  so  I couldn’t  enquire.  One  of  them 
bought  the  small  painting  for  sixty  guineas.  I gave  him  a 
receipt,  like  Rambury’s.  Of  course,  I was  much  pleased. 
Never  before  had  I made  so  much  money  on  one  transaction ; 
yet  the  whole  thing  had  hardly  taken  one  hour  of  my  time. 
But  a fortnight  afterwards  the  storm  burst.  The  postman 
put  a letter  in  my  hand  just  as  I was  going  to  the  station. 
I read  it  in  the  train,  on  my  way  to  Demehaven.  It  was  from 
Mawby  & Mawby,  the  solicitors,  who  ’re  always  working  with 
the  Ramburys.  They  wrote  in  legal  language.  Their  client  had 
consulted  them  in  what  appeared  to  be  a grave  matter ; they 
had  perused  what  purported  to  be  my  receipted  invoice  for 
&n  oil-painting  by  one  John  Constable,  deceased,  formerly  a 
member  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Arts ; they  were  credibly  in- 
formed that  the  work  was  an  impudent  forgery;  their  client, 
who  had  not  examined  it,  but  had  bought  the  painting  on  my 
guarantee,  had  been  seriously  damaged  in  his  reputation  in  a 
quarter  where  he  had  offered  the  picture  for  re-sale ; and  they 
were  considering  the  proper  course  to  take. 

“I  was  upset,  until  I reminded  myself  that  this  was  merely 
one  more  instance  of  Mr.  Albert’s  antipathy  to  me.  On  the 
back  of  the  envelope,  as  I sat  in  the  train,  I penciled  the 
draft  of  a reply  to  the  effect  that  I had  bought  the  pictures 
from  a gentleman  of  position,  who  had  stated  in  writing  that 


32 


THE  HARE 


they  were  Constables,  but  that  Mr.  Rambury  could  have  his 
money  back  if  he  felt  dissatisfied,  provided  he  withdrew  the 
insinuation  that  I had  been  dishonest.” 

‘ * The  proper  reply.  ’ ’ 

“When  I came  back  here  in  the  evening,  another  letter, 
with  the  London  postmark,  was  awaiting  me.  A firm  of 
solicitors  wrote  me  on  behalf  of  a Mr.  George  Brassington. 
Their  client,  they  said,  bought  pictures  for  a nobleman,  and 
he  had  been  gravely  compromised  on  account  of  a forged  paint- 
ing, alleged  to  be  a Constable,  which  I appeared  to  have  guar- 
anteed as  genuine.” 

* * What  did  they  threaten  to  do  ? ” 

“Nothing.  They  wound  up  by  saying  that  I would  doubt- 
less perceive  the  extreme  seriousness  of  the  affair.  I tore  up 
my  penciled  draft  for  Mawby,  and  sat  down  here  to  think  it 
all  over.  Naturally,  I soon  went  to  the  strong  box  for  Mr. 
Venn- Venning’s  receipt.  By  the  light  of  a candle  I began 
reading  it ; and  then  I found  that  the  original  phrase  ‘by  John 
Constable’  had  been  altered  to  ‘after  John  Cons'table.’  Mr. 
Venning,  when  he  slipped  back  for  his  gloves ” 

“Of  course.  You  don’t  need  to  tell  me  that.  Go  on.” 

“I  locked  up  the  chapel  and  went  straight  to  a few  trades- 
men whom  I had  obliged  in  one  way  or  another.  Mr.  Cottle, 
of  Cottle  & Evans,  the  tailors,  told  me  at  once  that  Mr.  Venn- 
Venning  had  fled  the  country,  and  that  his  checks  and  bills 
were  simply  waste  paper,  and  that  he  was  a cheat. 

‘ ‘ That  night,  Mr.  Edward,  I did  n ’t  go  to  bed.  I played  the 
organ  until  it  wouldn’t  have  been  right  to  make  a noise  any 
longer.  Then  I paced  up  and  down  this  chapel — miles  and 
miles.  You  see,  there  was  only  my  unsupported  word  that 
Mr.  Venn-Venning  had  altered  the  receipt  behind  my  back; 
and  he  had  altered  it  in  such  a hurry  that  you  could  n’t  be 
sure  which  had  been  written  first,  the  ‘by’  or  the  ‘after.’  I 
knew  what  people  would  say,  that  I was  trading  on  Mr.  Venn- 


THE  DELIVERER 


33 


Venning’s  bad  name,  and  taking  advantage  of  bis  absence  to 
concoct  an  excuse  for  my  own  fraud.  I shall  never  forget  that 
night.  In  the  morning  this  little  basket  overflowed  with  torn- 
up  drafts.  Please  tell  me,  Mr.  Edward,  what  I ought  to  have 
done.” 

“You  ought  to  have  gone  to  the  best  solicitor  in  Bulford.” 

“That  was  what  I wanted  to  do.  But  perhaps  you  do  not 
quite  realize  that  I am  still  regarded  by  most  of  the  profes- 
sional gentlemen  in  the  town  as  a rag-and-bone  man’s  son. 
They  wouldn’t  let  me  open  an  account  at  the  Bulford  Old 
Bank,  for  instance.  The  only  solicitors  I knew  were  Woodley, 
Baker  & Woodley,  who  had  acted  for  me  when  I leased  this 
chapel.  They  used  to  be  a first-class  firm,  but  they  have  gone 
down.  Anyhow,  I knew  no  other  solicitor,  so  I went  to  them 
as  soon  as  their  office  opened.  Mr.  Woodley  took  both  the  let- 
ters, as  well  as  Mr.  Venn- Venning’s  receipt.” 

“What  instructions  did  you  give  him?” 

“To  furnish  an  exact  account  of  the  trick  that  had  been 
played  on  me;  to  lay  strong  emphasis  on  the  fact  that  I only 
discovered  it  after  receiving  the  lawyers’  letters;  to  offer  to 
take  back  the  pictures,  returning  the  money  in  full;  and  to 
add  that  the  assistance  of  all  parties  would  be  required  in 
bringing  the  swindler  to  justice.  Was  that  right,  Mr.  Ed- 
ward?” 

“You  might  have  done  much  worse.  Continue.” 

“Mr.  Woodley  warned  me  that  my  story  was  uncorroborated, 
and  that  Mr.  Venn- Venning  might  ruin  me  by  a slander  action. 
He  said : ‘ The  less  letter-writing  the  better.  Let  me  see  these 
solicitors  in  person.’  I agreed.” 

“And  you  did  right,  Coggin.  I hope  Woodley  did  right, 
also.” 

“The  affair  dragged  out  for  weeks.  The  London  man,  Mr. 
Brassington,  said  it  was  a cock-and-bull  story,  and  that  he 
wasn’t  sure  he  would  be  acting  in  the  public  interest  if  he 


THE  HARE 


34 

merely  accepted  his  money  back.  Mawby  & Mawby  took  the 
same  line,  in  different  language.  They  dangled  over  my 
head  vague  hints  of  criminal  prosecution.  Of  course,  I told 
Mr.  Woodley  that  there  must  be  nothing  that  would  look 
like  buying  them  off  or  paying  them  hush-money.  I would 
have  gone  to  prison  for  five  years  rather  than  that.  In  the 
long  run,  Mr.  Woodley  sent  for  me,  and  announced  that  they 
would  return  the  pictures  in  exchange  for  their  money  and 
their  out-of-pocket  expenses,  and  that  the  matter  would  then 
be  at  an  end,  as  they  declined  to  be  drawn  into  my  transac- 
tions with  Mr.  Venn- Yenning,  which  were  not  their  business. 
Mr.  Woodley  pointed  out  that  it  was  simple  justice  to  recoup 
their  expenses,  and  that  he  did  n’t  think  they  would  be  heavy. 
I consented,  because  the  swindler  was  out  of  reach,  and  there 
seemed  no  other  way.  But  when  the  bills  came  in,  Mr.  Ram- 
bury’s  was  over  sixty  pounds,  and  Mr.  Brassington’s  was 
eighty  pounds,  and  Mr.  Woodley’s  nearly  a hundred.  He 
had  charged  me  the  whole  expense  of  several  journeys  to  Lon- 
don, though  I know  he  had  to  go  there  on  other  business.  So 
those  two  pictures  have  cost  me  nearly  three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds,  which  was  more  than  my  whole  working  cap- 
ital.” 

4 ‘ They ’ve  kept  their  bargain?  They  have  dropped  the 
suggestion  of  fraud  absolutely?  ” 

‘ e I do  not  doubt  they  have.  But  somehow  the  matter  leaked 
out.  There  have  been  paragraphs  in  the  Courier  about  a local 
art-dealer  who  is  buying  experience  rather  dearly.  Anony- 
mous letters  come  to  me.  Sometimes  I find  insulting  words 
chalked  on  the  door.  It  even  happens ” 

Coggin’s  words  were  cut  short  by  a ting  of  the  bell.  A 
rotund  and  rubicund  gentleman  waddled  in.  He  wanted  a 
pair  of  small  bronze  horses. 

“I  mean  the  pair  you  bought  at  Mrs.  Garrowby’s  sale,” 
he  said.  “If  you  haven’t  sold  them  in  the  meantime.” 


THE  DELIVERER 


35 


Coggin  led  him  up  to  the  horses.  They  were  standing  on  a 
broad  window-sill,  just  behind  Edward  Redding. 

“ These  are  what  I bought  at  Mrs.  Garrowby ’s,  ’ ’ said  Cog- 
gin. 

“You  are  sure  they  are  the  same — perfectly  sure?” 
Edward  Redding  stepped  forward  and  asked  sharply : 
“What  do  you  mean,  sir?  Your  question  has  already  been 
answered.” 

“Well — you  see,”  the  customer  answered,  with  a nervous 
half-giggle,  “one  hears  funny  things.  One  hears  about  cer- 
tain paintings  by  Constable ” 

“And  one  is  going  to  hear  something  else,”  thundered  Red- 
ding, who  had  inherited  his  father's  great  voice.  “One  is  go- 
ing to  hear  the  plain  order,  ‘Get  out.’  If  you  think  Coggin — 
Mr.  Coggin — is  a dishonest  dealer,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself  for  encouraging  him.  Right-about-face!  Quick 
march,  you  simpering  humbug!  ” 

Redding  led  the  way  towards  the  door  at  such  a speed  that 
the  astounded  stranger  could  not  keep  pace,  and  had  to 
change  his  waddle  for  a comical  run.  As  Redding  regained 
his  old  place  near  the  bronze  horses,  he  saw  that  Coggin  was 
pale  and  trembling. 

‘ ‘ Forgive  me — Harry,  ’ ’ Edward  blurted  out.  He  shared  his 
mother’s  pride  of  birth,  and  it  cost  an  effort  to  say  “Harry”; 
but  he  got  the  word  out  clearly  and  warmly.  “Forgive  me  for 
interfering.  But  if  this  is  the  life  you  are  living  among 
snobs  and  curs,  my  blood  boils.  Has  it  happened  before  ? ’ ’ 
“It  happens  every  day,”  Coggin  answered  in  low  tones. 
Then,  losing  all  control,  he  suddenly  blazed  up  and  cried: 
“I  thank  God  my  mother  is  dead.  She  died  in  peace.  This 
would  have  killed  her.  I can  stand  it  no  longer.  ’ ’ 

“You  ’re  not  going  to  stand  it  any  longer,  Harry,”  said 
Edward  Redding.  “Within  a month  you  shall  be  out  of  this 
accursed  town,  never  to  set  foot  in  it  again.” 


36 


THE  HARE 


“No,  Mr.  Edward,  no,  no!”  cried  Coggin  desperately.  “If 
this  hadn’t  happened,  I might  have  said  Yes.  But  I can’t 
go  now.  They ’ve  tried  their  hardest  to  drive  me  out  and 
they ’ve  failed.  Here  I stay,  till  I ’ve  lived  down  the  last 
breath  of  slander.  Oh,  Mr.  Edward,  surely  you  can  see  it. 
If  I slip  off  like  a thief  in  the  night  they  ’ll  say  it ’s  true. 
Your  father  fought  for  my  mother  and  for  me.  It ’s  a com- 
mon saying  that  he  would  be  in  Bulford  to-day  but  for  ‘ Raggie 
Coggin,’  ‘Boney  Coggin.’  No.  For  his  sake  I will  clear  my 
name  before  them  all.” 

Redding  took  a few  strides  down  the  chapel  and  up  again, 
and  thgi  said: 

“You  are  not  going  to  slip  out  of  Bulford  like  a thief  in 
the  night.  You  are  going  to  leave  in  broad  daylight,  with  all 
flags  flying.  I can  promise  you  that.  Now  get  on  with  your 
work  and  I will  get  on  with  mine.  Can  I see  you  to-night? 
To  save  time,  perhaps  you  would  provide  a little  bread  and 
cheese  and  a jug  of  ale.” 

“We  close  the  chapel  at  seven.  I have  a meal  at  half-past,” 
Coggin  replied.  And  he  added,  with  a sudden  return  of  his 
old  humility:  “If  I am  not  taking  too  great  a liberty,  Mr. 
Edward,  perhaps  you  would  . . . perhaps  I might  ask  you  to 
do  me  the  very  great  honor  of  ...  of  dining  with  me.” 

At  the  word  “dining,”  Edward  Redding  started.  Bill 
Coggin ’s  son  dining  late!  He  concluded,  however,  that  the 
furniture-dealer  had  merely  been  fumbling  for  an  acceptable 
word,  and  that  the  meal  would  be  a substantial  tea,  which  the 
Reddings  had  always  detested.  Still,  he  could  not  easily  re- 
fuse ; and  it  suited  his  rapidly-forming  plans  to  be  absent  from 
“The  Bulcaster  Arms,”  where  Rambury’s  emissaries  would 
certainly  try  to  keep  him  under  observation.  So  he  answered : 

“With  the  greatest  pleasure.  Dinner,  here,  half-past 
seven.” 


CHAPTER  III 


S he  stepped  out  of  Coggin’s  cool  chapel  into  the  dusty 


street,  Redding  instantly  took  one  small,  preliminary 


decision.  He  must  clear  out  of  4 ‘The  Bulcaster 


Arms’ ’ without  a moment’s  delay,  before  anybody  could  em- 
barrass him  there  by  calls  or  messages.  So  he  hurried  back  to 
the  inn,  paid  his  bill,  packed  his  things  and  left  word  that  he 
would  send  a messenger  for  the  valises  later  on.  If  no  better 
plan  occurred  to  him,  he  could  easily  take  the  last  train  to 
Demehaven,  where  there  was  a modern  hotel. 

To  evade  acquaintances,  the  young  man  slipped  down  Perry 
Lane  to  the  landing-stages  on  the  banks  of  the  Deme.  It  was 
pleasant  to  see  the  broad  clean  stream  once  more ; and  when  a 
boatman  came  forward  with  seductive  praises  of  the  lovely 
morning,  Edward  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  a light 
skiff.  Although  a gentle  current  opposed  him,  he  shot  for- 
ward at  a prodigious  rate  up  the  lonely  reaches,  never  paus- 
ing until  he  could  see  the  white  gable  of  “The  Anglers”  at 
Minnowbridge  reflected  in  the  bronze-colored  water.  He  had 
sculled  nearly  five  miles,  and  it  was  one  o ’clock. 

In  an  arbor  built  out  over  the  running  water,  Redding 
sat  for  at  least  an  hour  after  disposing  of  his  cold  mutton  and 
bread  and  cheese  and  bitter  ale.  While  he  brooded,  he  saw 
the  first  streaks  of  daylight.  It  seemed  prudent  to  hold  his 
brains  back  from  a theory  and  a plan  until  he  had  put  certain 
questions  to  Coggin.  But  the  sun  was  hot,  and  he  knew  he 
must  wait  a little  before  sculling  home  again ; so  he  sharpened 
a pencil  and  began  a letter  to  his  father.  After  a paragraph 
about  his  journey,  he  wrote: 


37 


38 


THE  HARE 


Now  for  Coggin.  You  were  right  when  you  said  something 
teas  wrong.  lie  has  told  me  part  of  the  story,  and  there  will 
be  more  to-night. 

His  health  seems  good.  My  first  sight  of  him  this  morning 
— he  did  n’t  see  rne — was  outside  the  old  chapel,  now  his  ware- 
house and  shop.  I saw  him  working  like  a nigger,  in  a flannel 
shirt  and  corduroys.  When  I met  him  later , he  looked  thor- 
oughly presentable.  Good  navy-blue  serge,  dark  blue  cravat. 

What  strikes  me  most  is  his  command  of  words.  Now  and 
then  he  relapses  into  that  abominable  old  ’ umble  manner  of 
his,  and  he  still  forms  sentences  too  deliberately,  but  in  the 
main  he  speaks  like  an  educated  man  of  the  world,  except  that 
every  Tom , Dick,  and  Harry  is  “Mister.” 

Honestly,  his  organ-playing  is  magnificent.  We  must  get 
him  out  of  this  hole  of  a Bulford. 

After  his  mention  of  Coggin’s  deliverance  from  Bulford,  Ed- 
ward Redding  ceased  scribbling.  How  was  the  deliverance  to 
be  wrought?  He  felt  it  could  be  achieved:  indeed  he  had 
promised  Harry  Coggin  that  he  would  achieve  it.  Yes.  It 
should  be  done — done  before  Midsummer  Day. 

The  drift  homeward  was  not  like  the  pull  outward.  At 
least  twenty  times  the  oarsman  ceased  rowing  altogether, 
watching  the  drops  as  they  fell  from  the  idle  blades  or  merely 
keeping  the  skiff  in  mid-stream  by  a light  stroke  now  and  again. 
Thrice  he  tied  up  under  the  willows  and  smoked  the  full- 
flavored  cigarettes  he  had  brought  from  Spain.  Yes.  It 
should  be  done.  He  saw  a way. 

The  closer  his  feet  drew  to  the  chapel  and  the  nearer  the 
hands  of  his  watch  approached  half -past  seven,  the  more  un- 
savory to  Edward  Redding  became  the  thought  of  a dinner 
with  Coggin.  Although  he  held  Liberal  opinions  in  politics 
and  was  always  ready  to  break  a lance  on  behalf  of  the  op- 


THE  DELIVERER 


39 


pressed,  he  was  so  fastidious  and  aristocratic  in  his  personal 
habits  that  he  could  not  help  holding  off  the  oppressed  at  an 
arm’s  length.  It  was  true  that  he  had  always  found  Coggin 
the  pink  of  cleanliness  and  wholesomeness.  But  talking  with 
a self-educated  genius  was  one  thing  and  eating  with  him  was 
another.  Although  Redding  did  not  dare  to  speculate  on  the 
menu,  he  felt  horribly  sure  that  he  would  eat  strong  and 
greasy  dishes  in  a sealed-up  kitchen,  nauseous  with  odors  of 
past  fryings  and  onion-choppings  innumerable.  And  after  his 
: long  day  in  the  living  air  on  the  clean  river,  amidst  the  sweet 
young  leaves,  such  an  experience  would  be  doubly  disgusting. 
The  chapel  door  was  closed;  but  all  the  windows  were  open, 
and  through  these  windows  came  delicate  music  which  seemed 
i to  climb  and  cling  all  over  the  gaunt  building,  beautifying  it 
like  bright  and  fragrant  creepers  on  an  old  barn.  Redding 
had  hardly  pulled  the  bell  when  a bolt  was  drawn,  and  Harry 
Coggin  opened  the  ponderous  door.  The  two  young  men  en- 
tered the  chapel.  Redding  had  expected  to  find  it  stuffy ; in- 
deed he  had  been  pitying  himself  as  a much-suffering  mortal 
for  having  to  do  errands  of  mercy  in  a second-hand  furniture 
shop.  But  “St.  Coggin’s,”  as  Sir  George  Batwood  called  it, 
smelt  almost  as  cool  arid  fresh  as  the  open  river.  Redding 
could  not  help  saying  so. 

“Yes,”  agreed  Coggin,  looking  pleased,  “everything  here  is 
sweet  and  clean.  If  you  will  pardon  my  saying  so,  it  is  cleaner 
than  most  houses.  Look.  ’ ’ 

He  thwacked  in  succession  two  or  three  padded  arm-chairs 
and  a luxurious  divan.  Hardly  a speck  of  dust  flew  out. 

| “In  houses,”  he  explained,  “they  beat  carpets,  scrub  floors, 
paint  doors,  paper  walls  and  ceilings;  but  furniture  like  this 
| often  goes  a life-time  with  nothing  more  than  dusting  and 
| brushing.  Whatever  comes  in  here  is  picked  open  and  puri- 
! fled  inside  and  out.  Often  we  put  in  entirely  new  stuffing. 

| You  would  be  astounded  at  what  we  find,  even  in  furniture 


40 


THE  HARE 


from  first-class  shops — rags  and  straw  and  dirty  rubbish.  I 
have  a very  clean  upholsterer,  and  most  of  these  things  are 
better  than  new.” 

The  spacious  and  lofty  chapel,  softly  carpeted  and  warmly 
lighted  by  the  setting  sun,  was  certainly  attractive.  Although 
it  was  a shop  and  warehouse,  it  seemed  to  be  permanently 
furnished,  like  a grand  hall,  rather  than  stocked  with  priced 
and  numbered  bits  of  furniture  for  sale.  As  Edward  glanced 
at  the  patches  of  noble  bronze,  of  imperious  brass,  or  lordly 
mahogany,  of  legendary  oak,  of  antique  marble,  of  intimate 
china,  of  seemly  silver  which  caught  the  ruddy  light  here  and 
there,  he  had  an  inspiration. 

“Why  not  have  our  bits  of  bread  and  cheese  and  our  tank- 
ard of  beer  here,  where  it ’s  so  airy  and  comfortable  ? ’ ’ he 
asked.  “Truly,  I don’t  wish  for  anything  better.” 

“But  I do,  Mr.  Edward,”  retorted  Coggin,  with  unusual 
gaiety.  “The  dining-room  is  quite  as  airy.  Shall  we  go?” 

He  led  the  way  into  what  had  been,  in  the  days  of  the  Wes- 
leyan services,  the  minister’s  vestry.  Redding  cried  out.  He 
saw  a well-proportioned  room,  oak-paneled  half  way  up  the 
walls.  In  an  old-fashioned  little  grate  a heap  of  fir-cones 
burned  merrily.  Two  wax-candles,  still  unlit,  had  been  set  in 
heavy  brass  candlesticks  on  a massive  oval  table.  The  table- 
cloth was  snowy-white,  and  the  few  pieces  of  silver  and  glass 
reflected  the  last  slanting  sunbeams.  When  his  first  surprise 
was  over,  Redding  noticed  four  choice  engravings,  judiciously 
hung;  a bowl  of  yellow  roses,  between  the  brass  candlesticks; 
two  high-backed  chairs;  a claret-jug,  and  a crystal  decanter. 
The  upper  sash  of  the  window  had  been  pulled  down  as  far 
as  it  would  go,  and  a life  giving  breeze  kept  tossing  into  the 
room  and  dragging  back  again  into  the  garden  the  light  stems 
and  crisp  leaves  of  a Virginia  creeper. 

“You  would  wish  to  wash?”  said  Coggin. 


THE  DELIVERER 


41 


“No.  I was  splashing  only  half-an-hour  ago,”  Redding 
made  haste  to  answer.  It  was  true.  On  giving  up  the  skiff 
he  had  attempted  some  awkward  ablutions  at  the  boatman’s 
cottage.  His  fear  and  prejudices  were  dying  hard.  Even 
with  the  spotless  table-cloth  before  his  eyes,  and  with  the  de- 
licious air  in  his  nostrils,  he  shrank  in  dismay  from  Coggin’s 
upper  regions,  where  he  felt  sure  there  would  be  disorder 
and  dirt  and  stateness,  Edward  had  so  often  heard  his 
father  say  that,  although  a clergyman  had  a pleasant  life  on 
the  whole,  nothing  could  quite  set  off  the  horror  of  sitting  in 
the  bedrooms  of  the  poor. 

Coggin  seemed  disappointed  at  the  refusal.  He  asked  to 
to  be  excused  for  a few  moments,  and  disappeared  through  a 
narrow  doorway  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room.  Very  soon 
he  emerged,  carrying  a soup  tureen  and  two  deep  plates  on  a 
small  tray.  Guest  and  host  sat  down  to  table.  Alluring  odors 
filled  the  room. 

“Perhaps  you  will  say  grace,  Mr.  Edward,”  Coggin  said. 

“Confound  it  all,”  retorted  Redding,  “I ’m  a parson’s 
son,  not  a parson,  say  grace  yourself.” 

“ Benedictus  benedicat,”  Coggin  said,  rather  shyly.  Then 
he  uncovered  the  tureen  and  served  a kidney  soup,  hot  and 
clean  and  fragrant,  with  sippets  of  still  firm  toast  a-float 
in  it.  After  a first  hesitating  spoonful,  Redding  fell  to.  Al- 
ways a hungry  young  man,  he  felt  ravenous  after  his  day  on 
the  river.  Meanwhile  the  host  bent  down  and  took  from  a 
pail  of  cold  water  under  the  table  a small  bottle  of  Moselle. 
Having  wuped  it  carefully,  he  drew  the  cork  and  filled  two  thin 
green  glasses.  The  guest  opened  his  eyes  wide.  After  such 
a soup,  was  it  likely  that  there  would  be  bad  wine  ? He  raised 
the  glass  to  his  lips.  At  first  sip  he  quailed.  After  the  heavy 
juices  of  Spain  and  the  vinous  hock  of  “The  Bulcaster  Arms” 
this  wine  cut  his  palate  for  a moment,  like  an  exquisitely  tern- 


42 


THE  HARE 


pered  blade.  Then  the  memory  of  summer  days  at  Trier  and 
in  the  Moselle  valley  rushed  back  upon  him,  and  he  knew  how 
fine  a bottle  had  been  opened  in  his  honor. 

Coggin  carried  away  the  soup-plates  and  returned  with  a 
homely  brown  dish,  of  oblong  shape,  wherein  lay  two  strange- 
looking  packets.  When  the  packets  were  opened,  Redding  saw 
and  smelt  two  speckled  trout  which  had  been  baked  in  buttered 
paper.  With  these  toothsome  little  fishes  the  Moselle  tasted 
better  than  ever. 

“By  Jove,  Slogger,”  exclaimed  Redding  heartily,  when 
nothing  but  a skeleton  remained  on  his  plate.  “ I ’ll  try  and 
say  a gr£ce  now,  if  you  like.  What  a soup ! And  what  trout ! 
And  what  wine ! But  really,  it  is  too  bad — going  to  all  this 
trouble  and  expense.  If  there ’s  another  dish  to  follow,  for 
heaven’s  sake  don’t  get  up  from  the  table.  Let  the  cook 
bring  it  herself.  Never  mind  if  she ’s  a bit  unpresentable. 
We  ’re  not  standing  on  ceremony.  Besides,  I ’d  like  to  see 
her.  She ’s  a genius.  Call  her  in.” 

* ‘ This  is  my  regular  dinner,  every  night  save  Sunday,  ’ ’ ex- 
claimed Coggin,  in  his  most  modest  tones.  “I  ’ll  admit  that 
to-night  we  have  an  extra  dish  and  two  kinds  of  wine  instead 
of  one.  As  for  the  cook  . . . well,  I ’m  cook  myself.  So 
please  excuse  me  again.” 

He  retired  with  the  fish-plates.  Redding  gazed  after  him 
in  astonishment.  Then  he  sprang  up  and  followed.  Push- 
ing open  the  narrow  door  he  found  himself  in  a tiny  kitchen, 
where  every  utensil  shone  and  where  there  was  not  a dirty 
knife  or  a potato-paring  or  a ragged  clout  to  be  seen.  Cog- 
gin  was  bending  down  and  taking  a shapely  earthenware  pot 
out  of  the  oven.  Redding,  who  could  do  nothing  domestic 
himself,  had  always  been  a little  frightened  of  people  who 
could  cut  up  animals  and  whet  long  knives  and  play  with 
scorching  fire : so  he  recoiled  and  sat  down  again  at  the  table. 
The  shapely  pot  was  set  down  on  a straw  mat,  and  Coggin  pro- 


THE  DELIVERER 


43 


duced  from  its  depths  the  legs  of  a plump  chicken,  together 
with  many  little  dice  of  various  colors  cut  from  young  carrots, 
young  turnips,  and  young  potatoes,  and  moistened  with  a won- 
derful sauce  or  gravy,  the  color  of  old  mahogany.  He  trans- 
ferred these  good  things  to  the  piping-hot  dinner-plates,  and 
then  poured  out  very  carefully  two  glasses-full  of  claret. 

“Please  eat  while  it ’s  hot,”  he  said. 

Edward  Redding  obeyed.  The  delicate  white  meat  came 
away  from  the  bone  at  a touch ; yet  it  had  not  been  cooked  to 
rags,  and,  thanks  to  the  sauce,  flavor  had  gone  into  the 
chicken  instead  of  being  stewed  out  of  it.  And  when  he 
tasted  his  Bordeaux  he  knew  that  the  Queen  in  London  was 
drinking  no  better. 

“Slogger,”  he  said  at  last,  “you  have  deceived  me.  This 
morning  I came  here  offering  to  lend  you  some  money.  How 
you  must  have  smiled.  You  say  you  dine  practically  like  this 
every  night.  So  you  are  not  only  a genius  but  a Croesus. 9 ’ 

“Not  quite,”  retorted  the  other.  “My  breakfast  is  like  a 
navvy  ’s.  But  I do  think  it  is  not  a waste  of  time  to  spend  an 
hour  in  cooking  a proper  evening  meal  and  another  hour  in 
eating  it.  I do  it  on  principle,  Mr.  Edward.  Living  by  my- 
self like  this,  there  is  a temptation  to  go  on  playing  the  organ, 
or  to  finish  some  interesting  book,  and  to  be  untidy  and  care- 
less about  meals.  I overdo  it,  perhaps;  and  if  any  of  the 
Bulford  people  knew  it  they  would  call  me  a ridiculous  up- 
start and  snob.  But  if  I didn’t  overdo  it  . . . well,  I should 
underdo  it.  And  as  for  expense,  it  is  cheaper  to  dine  well 
than  to  dine  badly. 9 9 

“But  these  wines?” 

“Wine  and  music  are  my  only  luxuries;  and  they  both  earn 
me  more  than  they  cost.  You  see,  Mr.  Edward,  I go  to  big 
sales  now,  at  grand  houses*  and  I buy  all  sorts  of  things.  If 
I don’t  make  so  many  mistakes  as  other  dealers  when  I buy 
wine  or  a piano  or  a harp,  and  if  I get  better  bargains,  it  is 


44? 


THE  HARE 


because  I study  wine  and  play  the  piano.  As  a rule  though, 
I drink  only  a little  ordinary  claret,  bottled  by  myself,  and 
it  does  n ’t  cost  sixpence  a day. ’ 7 

The  bare  chicken-bones  gave  place  in  due  time  to  the  dessert 
— a glass  bowl  containing  about  a dozen  large,  handsome,  ripe, 
dry  strawberries,  and  some  ratafia  biscuits  with  a small  wedge 
of  Cheshire  cheese.  The  rest  of  the  ’38  Chateau  Pape  Clement 
went  down  well  with  these  good  things.  And  as  the  wine 
dwindled  in  the  decanter,  the  daylight  outside  weakened  until 
the  diners  were  glad  of  the  cheerful  flame  in  the  hearth  which 
Coggin  had  replenished  with  small  pieces  of  fragrant  old 
wood,  saved  from  his  workshop.  They  did  not  light  the 
candles,  as  this  would  have  meant  shutting  the  window. 

“And  now,”  said  Edward  Redding,  after  he  had  praised 
his  dinner  for  the  tenth  time,  “let  us  have  the  story  of  your 
music.  You  mentioned  concerts.” 

“My  music,”  Harry  Coggin  answered  directly,  “was  a com- 
plete failure.  There  were  two  selections:  ‘Ten  Pieces  for  the 
Organ,’  and  ‘Six  Preludes  and  Fugues’  for  the  pianoforte. 
They  fell  absolutely  flat.” 

“You  sent  us  them  both.  My  mother  plays  well,  but  we 
were  none  of  us  musical  enough  to  understand  your  composi- 
tions merely  by  reading  them  on  paper,  and  there  was  no  piano 
where  we  were  staying.  At  Freiburg  the  organist  of  the 
cathedral  played  them  over  for  us.  We  thought  them  fine. 
So  did  he.  In  fact  he  borrowed  them,  to  copy  them ; and  by 
the  way,  we  never  got  them  back.  Surely  some  people  praised 
them  here.” 

“I  never  heard  of  one.” 

“Well,  Coggin,  we  enquired  about  it;  and  months  after- 
wards, when  it  was  too  late,  we  learned  the  truth.  The  peo- 
ple you  went  to  are  no  good.  They  call  themselves  publishers, 
but  they  don ’t  publish.  They  engrave  music  beautifully,  on 
paper  that  will  last  a thousand  years;  and  then  they  fold 


THE  DELIVERER 


45 


their  arms  and  wait  for  the  public  to  find  out  that  the  com- 
position exists  and  to  buy  it  in  reams.  What  did  it  cost 
you  ? ’ ’ 

“Over  a hundred  pounds.  It  can’t  be  helped  now,  and  it 
did  me  good  to  put  music  in  print.  Perhaps  I should  n’t  have 
had  such  a failure  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  concerts.  I 
know  the  Bulford  Mercury  meant  to  review  the  compositions 
favorably;  but  the  concerts  frightened  them.” 

“ I ’m  waiting  for  the  concerts.  ’ ’ 

“My  idea  was  to  give  two  concerts,  one  in  the  afternoon, 
the  other  in  the  evening.  You  see,  Mr.  Edward,  the  music- 
shops  here  would  not  show  my  compositions  in  their  windows : 
because  I am  now  a dealer  in  musical  instruments  myself,  and 
they  resent  the  intrusion.  So  I decided  to  give  two  short 
chamber  concerts,  and  to  play  two  of  my  own  things  at  each 
concert.  The  programs  were  really  good — Handel  and  Bach 
on  a real  old  harpsichord,  and  afterwards  modern  composers, 
especially  Schumann,  who ’s  hardly  known  in  Bulford.  I 
engaged  the  Victoria  Rooms.  The  booksellers  were  very  kind. 
All  of  them,  except  Tucker  and  Slann,  shewed  the  program 
and  sold  tickets. 

“At  first  we  were  immensely  encouraged,  my  mother  and 
I ; because  Mr.  Rixon  sent  round  within  a few  hours  for  more 
tickets.  I went  to  Prout  and  Hopkinson’s,  but  they ’d  sold 
all  their  tickets  too,  and  it  was  the  same  everywhere.  And 
that  was  three  weeks  before  the  day. 

“The  afternoon  came.  My  mother  had  a new  black  silk 
dress  and  bonnet,  very  plain  but  very  good.  She  insisted  on 
having  a seat  at  the  back,  in  a corner.  We  were  a little  sur- 
prised at  being  the  first  to  arrive,  until  I remembered  that,  as 
the  seats  were  all  reserved  and  numbered,  there  was  no  need 
for  anybody  to  come  early.  Three  o’clock  came.  At  five 
minutes  past,  one  man  came  in.  It  was  the  reporter  of  the 
Bulford  Mercury . He  glanced  round,  and  was  just  going  to 


4*6 


THE  HARE 


beat  a retreat  when  I ran  after  him  to  ask  if  my  watch  was 
wrong.  He  shewed  me  his  own  watch,  and  looked  very  much 
embarrassed  and  a bit  upset.  I drew  him  into  the  ante-room 
and  begged  him  to  speak.  lie  wouldn’t  at  first.  Then  he 
said:  ‘Mr.  Coggin,  I heard  half  a hint  of  this  last  night,  and 
I hoped  it  wasn’t  true.  I say  it ’s  a shame.  If  I were  the 
Editor,  instead  of  a poor  devil  of  a reporter,  the  Mercury 
would  speak  out  on  this.  Bulford  is  a damnable  town.’  He 
went  away,  and  I guessed  what  had  happened.  The  front 
seats  were  half-a-crown  each  and  the  others  a shilling.  Some- 
body had  spent  over  fifteen  pounds  buying  up  all  the  tickets 
and  not  using  one  of  them.” 

“You  take  my  breath  away,”  burst  out  Edward  Redding. 
“What  you  tell  me  is  vile  beyond  belief.  Yet  . . . are  you 
sure  ? If  anybody  did  this  deliberately,  he  put  fifteen  pounds 
in  your  pocket.” 

“No,  Mr.  Edward.  I had  announced  that  the  whole  pro- 
ceeds would  go  to  the  Infirmary.  ’ ’ 

“Some  thoughtless  people  may  have  bought  all  the  tickets 
for  the  sake  of  the  Infirmary ; not  to  spite  you  at  all.  ’ ’ 

“When  you  have  heard  the  rest,  you  won’t  say  so.  Well,  I 
sat  down  and  went  right  through  the  whole  program.  The 
windows  were  open;  and  the  hall-keeper  told  me  afterwards 
that  while  he  was  smoking  in  Dark  Alley,  the  narrow  little  lane 
alongside  the  Victoria  Rooms,  young  Mrs.  Albert  Rambury 
and  another  lady  walked  up  and  down  and  listened.  My 
mother  cried  that  night  as  I had  never  seen  her  cry  before; 
and  I made  up  my  mind  to  come  out  victorious  at  the  second 
concert,  just  for  her  sake. 

“Mr.  Rixon  told  me,  first  thing  next  morning,  that  while  my 
first  concert  was  going  on,  people  he  did  not  recognize  had 
bought  up  all  the  tickets  for  the  second.  At  the  other  book- 
sellers’ it  was  the  same.  I seized  the  bull  by  the  horns  and  en- 
gaged the  Assembly  Rooms  that  very  morning.  I advertised 


THE  DELIVERER 


47 


that,  owing  to  the  tickets  being  all  sold  a week  ahead  I had 
taken  a larger  concert-room,  and  that  the  Victoria  Rooms 
tickets  would  be  available  there.  The  news  of  what  was  going 
on  flashed  round  the  town,  and  there  was  a big  demand  for 
tickets.  We  sold  at  least  two  hundred,  mostly  shilling  ones, 
to  genuine  applicants. 

4 ‘ On  the  night,  the  shilling  people  came  early ; but  right  up 
to  eight  o’clock  the  front  seats  were  nearly  all  empty.  Of 
course  those  were  chiefly  the  seats  I had  had  to  keep  for  the 
mysterious  people  who ’d  bought  the  Victoria  Rooms  tickets, 
and  I felt  glad  they  were  staying  away.  The  recital  began 
with  the  first  of  Schumann’s  Noveletten.  Perhaps  you  know 
it.” 

“No.” 

“The  beginning  is  massive  and  loud.  But  a tender  pas- 
sage follows,  and  just  as  this  had  begun  I heard  stamping  and 
jostling  and  loud  talking.  The  front  seats  were  filling  up. 
Still,  I did  n’t  take  my  eyes  off  the  music.  When  the  piece  was 
finished,  the  back  seats  began  to  applaud.  Instantly  the  front 
seats  sent  up  cat-yells  and  yelled  4 Rags-  and-bones,’  over  and 
over  again.  I looked ; and  instead  of  seeing,  as  I ’d  expected, 
the  fast  young  men  of  Bulford,  I saw  what  looked  like  the 
whole  population  of  Pig  Lane.  I found  out  afterwards  that 
somebody  had  put  all  the  Victoria  Rooms  tickets  into  en- 
velopes and  had  caused  them  to  be  thrown  into  the  Pig  Lane 
houses,  about  half-past  seven  on  the  very  evening  of  the 
concert.  ’ ’ 

‘ ' All  this  is  astounding,  ’ ’ said  Edward  Redding.  ‘ ‘ But  I ’m 
puzzled.  Why  did  Pig  Lane  yell  'Rags-  and-bones’?  Surely 
the  Pig  Lane  people  ought  to  have  been  your  champions.” 

“Not  at  all.  You  don’t  understand,  Mr.  Edward.  Even 
when  we  had  the  marine-store  on  the  canal-bank,  long  before  I 
won  the  Robson  Scholarship,  we  had  no  friends  in  Pig  Lane. 
You  see,  my  mother  married  a good  deal  beneath  her,  as  people 


48 


THE  HARE 


say.  The  Croxons,  of  Skilbury,  her  family,  used  to  be  well- 
to-do  yeomen.  My  mother  always  considered  herself  above 
Pig  Lane.  And  the  Pig  Lane  people  always  considered 
themselves  above  the  old-clo'  man's  family.  When  we  closed 
the  yard  and  got  on,  Pig  Lane  resented  it.  We  had  to  drive 
that  way  whenever  we  went  out  to  Skilbury ; and  although  the 
horse  and  trap  and  harness  and  our  own  clothes  were  never 
showy,  people  often  jeered  at  us.” 

“You  didn't  mind,  Slogger?” 

“A  little.  I wanted  to  be  friendly  with  the  young  working- 
men; and  they  thought  I was  patronizing  them.  I wanted  to 
work  with  the  educated  people,  on  the  Choral  Society  and  the 
Antiquarian  Society,  for  instance;  and  they  thought  I was 
presumptuous.  ’ ’ 

“Finish  telling  me  about  the  concert.” 

“Well,  as  soon  as  there  was  a,  lull,  I began  to  play  Mozart's 
Fantasia  and  Sonata.  It  was  of  no  use.  The  uproar  drowned 
the  piano.  Then  a few  gentlemen,  who  were  ashamed  of  the 
mob,  came  down  the  gangway  and  began  chucking  out  the 
noisest  lads.  That  led  to  a free  fight.  The  worst  of  it  was 
that  a man  named  Ned  Clegg,  a bruiser — the  Napperton 
Chicken  they  called  him — wanted  to  take  my  side.  I had 
helped  him  a bit  when  he  was  going  to  be  sold  up  for  the 
rent.  This  Ned  Clegg  hurt  his  hand  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fight,  so  he  unfastened  his  belt  and  laid  about  with  it,  right 
and  left.  It  had  a heavy  brass  buckle,  and  it  made  some 
ugly  wounds.  I was  blamed  for  them  all.  They  said  I 'd 
hired  the  Chicken  in  case  of  a row.  At  last  the  police  poured 
in,  and  the  manager  of  the  Assembly  Rooms  rushed  up  to  me 
and  ordered  me  to  stop  playing  as  they  must  clear  the  hall  be- 
fore more  damage  was  done.  They  turned  everybody  into 
the  street  and  put  out  the  gas ; but  the  fighting  went  on  in 
nooks  and  corners  for  nearly  an  hour.  The  worst  thing  was 
that  somebody  hustled  my  mother  and  asked  what  fine  lady's 


THE  DELIVERER  49 

left-off  silk  gown  she  was  wearing.  My  mother  was  never  the 
same  after  that  night.” 

Henry  Coggin  paused  in  his  narration.  The  fire,  which  had 
been  burning  low,  happened  to  flame  up  at  that  moment,  and 
Edward  Redding  saw  the  narrator’s  pale  face  harden.  Cog- 
gin  ’s  voice  hardened  too  as  he  added  slowly : 

“If  I could  have  found  out  who  it  was,  I believe  I should 
have  killed  him.  ’ ’ 

Dimness  grew  again,  and  there  was  a dead  silence.  At 
length  Redding  asked : 

“You  did  not  accept  this  damage  and  these  insults  with- 
out retaliation?” 

“Immediately  afterwards,  my  mother  fell  ill,”  Coggin  an- 
swered. “They  said  there  was  no  hope  for  her.  She 
would  n’t  leave  Bulford ; so  when  I heard  that  this  chapel  was 
to  let,  with  the  old  Sunday  School  behind,  I jumped  at  it.  I 
cleaned  and  altered  the  old  school  into  quite  a cheerful  little 
house.  The  view  over  the  Deme  from  the  back  window  is 
beautiful,  and  the  position  is  high  and  healthy.  It  was  living 
on  the  canal-bank  all  those  years  that  broke  her  constitution. 
But  she  never  set  foot  in  this  place.  My  plan  was  too  late 
. . . And,  after  her  death,  when  I was  settling  here,  I hadn’t 
the  heart  to  remember  the  concerts.  Then  came  the  affair  of 
the  forged  pictures.  No,  Mr.  Edward,  I have  not  retaliated. 
But  perhaps  you  will  consent  to  our  saying  no  more  about  it 
to-night.  There  is  a special  reason  why  I want  you  to  drink 
a glass  of  really  good  wine — a very  old  Madeira.  May  I close 
the  window  and  light  the  candles?” 


CHAPTER  IV 


WHEN  the  window  was  closed  and  the  candles  were 
lit,  Henry  Coggin  poured  out  his  ancient  Madeira. 
Although  it  had  been  grown  at  the  time  of  the 
French  Revolution,  the  handsome-looking  juice  was  still  hale. 
The  arrogance  of  its  youth  had  given  place  to  quiet  strength. 
Differences  of  birth  and  station  were  forgotten  for  the  moment 
as  the  two  young  men  held  their  glasses  up  to  the  candle- 
light, inhaled  the  reticent  fragrance,  and  finally  received  the 
honorable  draught  within  their  lips. 

For  a short  time  the  conversation  was  about  nothing  save 
wine.  Coggin  declared  that,  at  a sale  of  a man’s  possessions, 
you  could  generally  guess  whether  the  contents  of  the  cellar 
would  be  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  merely  by  casting  your  eye 
over  the  books,  the  pictures,  the  furniture,  the  plate,  and  es- 
pecially the  glass.  He  added  some  reminiscences,  to  prove  his 
point. 

“You  told  me  there  was  a special  reason  for  opening  this 
magnificent,  stunning,  marvelous,  insurpassable,  never-to-be- 
forgotten  bottle  to-night,  ’ ’ said  Redding,  at  the  second  filling 
of  his  glass.  “I ’m  waiting.” 

Several  moments  passed  before  Coggin  replied : 

“You  will  think  me  foolish  and  sentimental.  The  special 
reason  is  this.  Every  evening  of  my  life,  I sit  here  and  drink 
one  small  glass  of  fine  wine  in  memory  of  Mr.  Redding,  your 
father.” 

“Good  Lord!  But  the  guv ’nor  isn’t  dead.” 

“I  ought  to  have  said  in  his  honor,  not  in  memory  of  him,” 
exclaimed  Coggin.  But  he  added  hastily:  “No.  Memory 

50 


THE  DELIVERER 


51 


is  the  right  word.  I could  write  down  every  action  I ever 
saw  him  perform,  every  syllable  I ever  heard  him  utter.  And 
in  this  room,  all  by  myself,  I go  over  it  all,  again  and  again/’ 

Edward  was  on  the  brink  of  a chaffing  rejoinder.  He  would 
have  let  it  slip  out,  if  the  almost  religious  exaltation  of  the 
other’s  looks  had  not  compelled  him  to  be  silent.  Coggin 
went  on: 

“I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  go  away  from  Bulford 
thinking  of  me  as  a conceited  upstart.  That  I should  dine  in 
state  six  nights  a week,  by  the  light  of  wax  candles,  and  that  I 
should  drink  fine  wines  out  of  old  cut  glass  . . . this  could  be 
misunderstood.  Perhaps  even  you,  Mr.  Edward,  will  not 
quite  see  my  meaning. 

“I  hold  your  father,  Mr.  Edward,  in  such  reverence  that 
some  people  would  call  my  feeling  a sin.  If  it  were  not  for 
the  sacred  memory  of  what  he  was,  and  of  what  he  bade  me 
be,  I should  have  let  everything  go — Latin,  French,  English, 
philosophy,  history,  everything  except  music.  None  but  my- 
self can  ever  know  what  it  has  meant  to  study  alone,  to  be 
high  of  purpose  and  conscientious  in  execution,  grinding  on 
alone,  all  alone,  month  after  month,  living  a secret  life  to 
escape  ridicule  and  persecution.  The  first  time  I ever  tasted 
wine  was  one  afternoon  when  your  father  drank  a glass  of 
T5  port  at  our  cottage.  He  turned  and  made  a jest  to  me, 
about  having  a cellar  of  my  own  some  day.  This  nightly 
wine  ...  I shall  shock  you,  Mr.  Edward,  but  there ’s  no  other 
way  of  explaining  it  ...  it  is  my  cup  of  communion  with 
him.  When  I play  the  organ,  he  does  not  come  into  my  mind ; 
but  when  I sip  my  few  drops  of  old  grand  wine  he  seems  to  be 
in  the  room  with  me.  I seem  to  see  his  hand  spread  out  over 
the  top  of  his  glass  to  prevent  my  mother  filling  it  again;  a 
thin  hand  it  was  that  day,  after  his  long  illness.  Then  I 
say  to  myself:  ‘At  this  moment,  in  France  or  Switzerland,  or 
Italy  or  Spain,  he  is  tasting  his  little  glass  of  wine,’  and  I 


52 


THE  HARE 


raise  my  own  glass  to  my  lips.  Mr.  Edward,  the  empty  glass 
you  see  at  my  elbow  is  the  very  glass  he  took  from  my  mother ’s 
hand  twelve  years  ago.  Nobody  else  shall  ever  use  it.  Every 
night  I put  it  away  in  a box  lined  with  soft  wool.  Perhaps 
you  don ’t  understand ; but  I ’m  sure  you  will  drink  his  health 
with  me.” 

He  stood  up  shyly.  Redding,  deeply  touched,  rose  also. 
Then  Coggin  said : ‘ ‘ Here ’s  to  the  patron  saint  of  this  house. 
Wherever  he  goes,  may  God  bless  him  in  all  he  does  and  all 
he  suffers.” 

They  drank  the  toast  and  sat  down  again.  The  silence 
which  followed  was  broken  by  Redding.  “May  I tell  my 
father  about  this  nightly  toast  ? ” he  asked  gently.  ‘ ‘ I invited 
myself  to  dine  with  you,  and  I feel  I have  perhaps  intruded  on 
your  secrets.” 

After  musing  a little,  Coggin  answered : “ I should  like  you 
to  tell  him.  And,  now  that  this  is  a secret  no  longer,  I should 
like  you  to  tell  him  a little  more.  Not  only  does  his  empty 
glass  stand  at  my  elbow  already  ready  for  him,  but  his  room 
is  ready  too.” 

“His  room?” 

“Yes.  Don’t  laugh  at  me.  A few  months  ago  he  wrote 
that  he  was  determined  to  come  and  see  me,  but  that  it  would 
be  a flying  visit,  and  that  nobody  in  Bulford  was  to  know. 
The  day  I got  that  letter  I began  to  prepare  his  room.  I 
know  it  sounds  like  a great  liberty,  but  . . . but  perhaps  you 
will  look  at  the  room,  Mr.  Edward,  and  tell  him  what  it  is 
like.  I ’ll  go  and  light  the  candles  in  the  room  and  on  the 
stairs.  ’ ’ 

He  went  out  through  the  door  into  the  chapel,  leaving  it  ajar. 
His  footsteps  soon  died  away  along  a corridor.  But  the  weird 
stillness  did  not  last  long.  From  the  chapel  came  a pleasant 
clangor.  Edward  jumped  up  and  peeped  into  the  huge,  dark 
place.  Although  nothing  could  be  clearly  seen,  he  knew  that 


THE  DELIVERER 


53 


ever  so  many  old  clocks  were  striking  the  hour.  One  big  fel- 
low was  rippling  out  the  Westminster  quarters  while  several 
others  were  slowly  hitting  their  mellow  gongs.  When  the  sym- 
phony ceased,  a cuckoo-clock  blithely  mocked  its  grave  com- 
panions. Edward  counted  the  cuckoo-calls  and  found  it  was 
nine  o’clock. 

He  started.  Nine  o’clock.  And  the  last  train  to  Deme- 
haven  left  Bulford  at  nine  thirty-two.  To  pick  up  his  lug- 
gage at  “The  Bulcaster  Arms”  and  to  reach  the  station  would 
take  half-an-hour.  He  began  groping  along  the  corridor, 
meaning  to  bawl  out  a hasty  farewell  and  to  promise  that  he 
would  call  again  in  the  morning.  Suddenly,  however,  a bright 
thought  leapt  up  to  his  brain : and,  when  Coggin  re-appeared 
carrying  a hand-lamp,  Redding  went  straight  to  the  point. 

‘ ‘ Look  here,  Slogger,  ’ ’ he  cried.  ‘ ‘ I have  an  idea.  There ’s 
no  limit,  y’know,  to  my  impudence.  I invited  myself  to 
dinner,  and  I ’ve  drunk  up  all  your  best  wine.  Now  I ’m 
going  to  invite  myself  to  pass  the  night  here  as  well.  ’ ’ 

Coggin  nearly  dropped  his  lamp.  “Mr.  Edward,”  he  said, 
“you  don’t  mean  it?” 

At  dinner  the  furniture-broker,  helped  by  the  dimness  of 
the  room  and  by  the  consciousness  that  he  had  scored  a signal 
success,  both  as  cook  and  as  host,  had  gradually  lost  the  sense 
of  inferiority,  and  had  poured  out  his  thoughts  to  the  clergy- 
man’s son  almost  on  equal  terms.  Now,  however,  after  five 
minutes  of  diligence  upstairs  as  a chambermaid,  he  was  once 
more  Mr.  Edward  Redding’s  very  humble  and  obedient  serv- 
ant. He  had  descended  the  stairs,  hotly  ashamed  of  his  off- 
hand presumption  in  taking  it  for  granted  that  Mr.  Oswald 
Redding,  Master  of  Arts,  sometime  Rector  of  Bulford,  hus- 
band of  Sir  Adrian  Shrivenham’s  haughty  daughter,  and  a 
great  scholar  and  traveler,  would  ever  come  and  hob-nob  at 
his  second-hand  table  and  swallow  his  auction-room  wines,  and 
even  sleep  under  his  makeshift  roof. 


54 


THE  HARE 


“I  do  mean  it,  Slogger,”  said  Edward,  still  more  heartily. 
“To  tell  you  the  truth,  I meant  to  catch  the  last  train  to 
Demehaven  and  to  sleep  there.  You  see  I didn’t  know  I 
could  sponge  on  you  for  a room.  Yes  or  no?  My  father’s 
room,  of  course;  because  I ’ve  come  to  Bulford  in  his  place. 
Any  shakedown  will  do.” 

Coggin  recovered  his  composure  and  asked : * 1 Had  n ’t  you 
better  see  the  room  first?  It  might  not  . . . quite  suit  you, 
Mr.  Edward.” 

‘ ‘ I tell  you  any  old  truckle-bed  will  do.  But  confound  it ! 
Here ’s  a bother.  My  things!  They  ’re  all  packed  up  at 
‘The  Bulcaster  Arms,’  and  the  bill ’s  paid.  How  shall  I get 
them  here  ? You  see,  Slogger,  I ’m  forming  a plan  for  dealing 
with  Rambury,  Tranter  & Woodley,  and  it ’s  most  desirable 
that  they  should  not  know  where  to  find  me.  ’ ’ 

“That  ’s  easy,”  Coggin  answered.  “My  young  assistant  is 
calling  here  at  nine,  for  to-morrow ’s  instructions.  Scribble  him 
a note  for  the  landlord  and  he  shall  bring  your  luggage  here 
without  a word  to  anybody.  There,  he ’s  ringing  the  bell  now. 
You  ’ll  find  pen  and  paper  in  the  dining-room,  in  the  drawer  of 
the  little  table.” 

He  strode  off  through  the  chapel  to  open  the  door.  Two  min- 
utes later  the  messenger  was  on  his  way  to  the  inn,  and  Cog- 
gin once  more  began  leading  the  way  to  what  his  visitor  called 
“The  Redding  Chamber.”  At  each  awkward  turn  of  the 
stairs  a candle  burned  on  a wall-bracket,  and  there  were 
two  candles  on  the  landing.  It  was  a strange  climb.  As  the 
old  chapel  did  not  afford  much  wall-space  between  its  many 
windows,  most  of  the  oil-paintings  which  Coggin  had  acquired 
at  sales  were  hung  on  the  landing  and  stairs.  These  works 
were  mainly  old  over-varnished  copies  of  pictures  by  Raphael, 
Murillo,  Rubens,  Rembrandt,  and  Titian,  and  had  been  bought 
for  less  than  the  value  of  their  massive  frames.  By  candle- 
light they  made  a grand  show. 


THE  DELIVERER  * 


55 


The  master  of  the  house  threw  wide  a door  and  stood  back 
on  the  landing,  so  that  his  guest  might  pass  alone  into  the  bed- 
chamber. But  Edward  Redding  had  hardly  advanced  three 
steps  from  the  door-side  when  he  cried  out  and  fell  back. 

“ Where  are  you,  Coggin?”  he  demanded,  almost  angrily,  as 
if  a trick  had  been  played  upon  him. 

‘ ‘ I am  here, 9 ’ said  Coggin  quietly. 

They  went  into  the  room  together.  With  another  human 
being  close  beside  him,  Redding’s  fear  left  him.  After  the 
soft  richness  of  the  stairs  and  landing,  with  deep  carpets  under 
his  feet,  and  with  dull  gold  and  warm  brown  and  cheerful  red 
and  heavenly  blue  covering  nearly  every  inch  of  the  walls,  he 
had  expected  a bed-chamber  almost  like  the  boudoir  of  a royal 
favorite ; and  the  first  glimpse  of  the  reality  frightened  him. 

The  Redding  Chamber  measured  about  twelve  feet  by  ten. 
No  carpet  lay  on  the  polished  boards  of  the  floor.  A narrow 
iron  bedstead  stood  behind  the  door,  and  Edward  saw  that  the 
sheets  though  spotless,  were  coarse.  There  was  a mat 
beside  the  bed.  On  one  wall,  facing  the  head  of  the  bed, 
hung  a great  crucifix,  fully  three  feet  high.  On  the 
other  walls  were  several  religious  paintings  and  engrav- 
ings— an  Assumption,  a Martyrdom  of  Saint  Sebastian,  an 
Ecce  Homo,  a Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes,  and  a poor  por- 
trait of  Pio  Nono.  As  for  furniture,  it  comprised  simply  the 
bed,  a table,  a chest  of  drawers,  a corner  wash-stand,  two 
chairs,  a bookshelf,  and  a home-made  prie-dieu . The  drawn 
curtains  were  of  unbleached  linen. 

Edward  Redding  took  up  a candle  from  the  table  and 
cast  its  light  along  the  titles  of  the  volumes  in  the  shelf. 
Having  read  the  words  De  Imitatione  Christi,  “The  Garden  of 
Piety,”  Breviarium  Romanum,  “The  Life  of  St.  Charles  Bor- 
romeo, 9 ’ he  put  the  candle  down  in  a hurry. 

“I  was  afraid  this  room  wouldn’t  do,”  said  Coggin. 

“Of  course  it  will  do.  I hate  feather  beds  and  dusty  hang- 


56 


THE  HARE 


ings.  But  come,  come,  Slogger.  You ’ve  worked  up  a rather 
fanciful  picture  of  my  poor  old  guv ’nor  in  your  own  mind. 
Now  I think  of  it,  he ’s  a saint,  without  doubt.  He  simply 
lives  for  other  people,  and  never  lets  her  know  he ’s  disap- 
pointed when  my  mother  upsets  his  plans  by  some  sudden 
move.  Still,  he  isn’t  this  sort  of  a saint.  No  bones  sticking 
out  through  his  hair-shirt,  no  scourging  himself,  no  hard  peas 
in  his  boots,  you  know.” 

“I  think  he  might  like  this  little  room,”  persisted  Coggin, 
humbly.  “But  -what  about  yourself,  Mr.  Edward?  Hark! 
There ’s  the  luggage.” 

“This  is  my  room,  if  you  ’ll  give  it  me,  for  at  least  a week 
and  perhaps  longer,”  Redding  answered.  “If  I can’t  have 
this,  I ’ll  snooze  on  a sofa  in  the  chapel.  Give  your  messenger 
this  half-crown.  When  he ’s  off  the  premises,  we  ’ll  bring  the 
luggage  up.  I ’ll  wait  here.  ’ ’ 

Within  half-an-hour  Coggin  had  placed  his  guest’s  luggage 
in  the  Redding  Chamber  and  had  also  carried  up  two  large 
rugs,  an  arm-chair,  and  a wonderful  little  writing-desk  with 
lock-up  drawers.  When  everything  was  in  order,  the  host 
set  a match  to  the  shavings  and  the  old  knobs  of  wood  in  the 
grate.  A lively  fire  soon  began  to  chuckle  in  their  faces, 
and  the  two  young  men  settled  down  beside  it. 

“You  have  done  the  talking  to-night,  Harry  Coggin,”  Red- 
ding said.  “Now,  do  some  listening.  I won’t  be  long;  be- 
cause I know  you  keep  early  hours  and  you  work  hard. 

“I ’m  not  as  clever  as  you  are,  Harry  Coggin,  but  I have 
the  advantage  of  bringing  a fresh  eye  to  your  affairs.  You 
have  grown  stale.  Now,  my  father’s  instructions  are  to  get 
you  out  of  Bulford.  Me  you  would  refuse.  Him  you  will 
obey. 

“Certain  persons  want  to  drive  you  away  from  this  town. 
You  are  going  away;  but  they  shall  pay  you  for  going — and 


THE  DELIVERER  57 

pay  you  jolly  well  too.  They  shall  eat  humble-pie,  plenty  of 
it,  with  no  old  Madeira  to  wash  it  down. 

“To-day  I have  spent  three  hours  on  the  river,  thinking. 
Remember  that,  while  I was  sculling  and  puzzling,  puzzling 
and  sculling,  I knew  nothing  about  the  concerts.  Only  the 
pictures,  the  Constables.  Let  me  ask  you  what  is  your  theory 
about  that  affair.  To  save  time,  I ’ll  state  a theory  now, 
and  you  ’ll  say  if  it  agrees  with  your  own. 

“Venn-Venning,  unknown  to  you,  had  made  ducks  and 
drakes  of  his  second  fortune  and  sold  his  bequest  of  pictures. 
Prom  some  unprincipled  dealer  with  whom  he  was  doing  busi- 
ness, he  borrowed 'or  begged  these  clever  forgeries.  He  hoped 
simply  to  cheat  you  with  them.  When  you  asked  for  a receipt 
in  definite  terms  he  was  frightened.  But  he  simply  had  to 
have  money,  to  fly  to  France  One  more  fraud  did  not  matter 
greatly.  So  he  signed  and  took  your  cash.  Then  you  turned 
your  back.  He  seized  his  chance  and  altered  the  receipt.” 

“Of  course,  Mr.  Edward.  But  is  this  a theory?  Isn’t  it 
only  the  facts  ? ” 

“Perhaps  so.  But  listen  carefully.  We  are  agreed,  are  we, 
that  the  episode  of  the  receipt  had  not  been  premeditated  by 
him?  ” 

‘ ‘ It  could  n ’t  have  been.  He  could  n ’t  have  guessed  that  I 
would  put  a receipt  where  he  could  put  his  hands  on  it  again.” 

“Quite  so.  Excuse  such  obvious  comments.  Now  we  ’ll 
get  on.  Bully  Tranter  drifted  in  here  to  buy  decanters  and 
saw  the  pictures?  Drifted,  I say.” 

Redding  paused.  Coggin  said  nothing. 

“Then  Bully  Tranter  knocked  up  against  Rambury  Secun- 
dus,  quite  by  chance,  and  said  he ’d  seen  two  Constables  here. 
Quite  by  chance,  I say.  ’ ’ 

Again  he  paused.  Again  there  was  no  answer. 

“Rambury  bought.  No  haggling.  Too  busy  to  examine  the 


58 


THE  HARE 


picture.  Relied  on  your  guarantee.  Just  like  the  Ramburys, 
eh — careless,  impulsive,  happy-go-lucky,  generous  creatures?” 

There  was  no  reply. 

“Now  for  Brassington.  Those  London  solicitors— did  they 
ever  tell  you  Brassington ’s  address?” 

“Yes  . . . no.  When  I come  to  think  of  it,  they  didn’t. 
Is  it  usual?” 

“Did  Rambury  know  Brassington  before  they  made  com- 
mon cause  against  you?” 

“I  cannot  say.” 

“Have  I hinted  plainly  enough  at  my  theory,  Coggin? 
Don’t  be  afraid  to  answer.  I am  bound  to  speak  gravely. 
My  visit  to  Bulford  is  to  be  the  turning-point  in  your  life. 
Speak.  ’ ’ 

“You  mean,”  said  Coggin,  after  a long  time,  “did  any- 
body put  it  into  Mr.  Venn-Venning’s  head  that  he  should 
come  here?  Or,  did  somebody  who  had  got  to  know  that 
I had  been  swindled  merely  take  advantage  of  my  misfortune  ? 
You  mean : Has  there  been  a conspiracy  against  me?” 

* ‘ Exactly.  Yes  or  no  ? ” 

‘ ‘ I have  no  proof.  ’ ’ 

Redding  was  about  to  dissent.  But  he  checked  himself 
and  sat  still  for  a few  moments  shading  his  eyes  with  one 
hand  from  the  brightness  of  the  fire.  At  length  he  asked 
quietly : 

“If  it  were  proved,  what  would  you  do,  Harry  Coggin ? I 
don’t  ask  if  you  would  take  revenge.  But  would  you  invoke 
justice?  Would  you  feel  bound  to  punish  the  guilty  and  to 
cut  a foul  ulcer  out  of  the  poor  body  of  this  ancient  town? 
I ’ve  told  you  already  that  my  father  wants  you  away  from 
Bulford  forever.  If  I can  lead  you  out  of  it  in  triumph; 
if  I can  set  your  feet  on  a new  path  towards  success  and  happi- 
ness in  the  profession  you  love;  and  if,  without  injustice  or 
^excessive  severity,  I can  obtain  reparation  from  those  who 


THE  DELIVERER  59 

have  sought  to  blast  your  life,  will  you  give  up  this  chapel 
and  this  business  and  follow  me?” 

Coggin  shrank  back  afraid.  In  throwing  down  the  chal- 
lenge, Edward  Redding  had  abandoned  his  teasing  manner, 
and  his  voice  had  deepened  until  it  sounded  in  the  listener’s 
ears  just  like  that  other  voice  which  Coggin  would  have  fol- 
lowed to  the  end  of  the  world. 

Suddenly  Edward  Redding  got  up  and  extinguished  the 
candles.  Wheeling  his  arm-chair  out  of  the  firelight  he  de- 
manded again,  in  tones  still  more  like  his  father’s: 

“Will  you?  Don’t  think  of  me.  Try  to  imagine  it  is  my 
father  sitting  here,  my  father  speaking,  my  father  asking. 
Will  you,  Harry  Coggin?” 

Harry  Coggin  answered:  “Yes.” 


CHAPTER  V 


HUNDREDS  of  singing-birds  awakened  Edward  Red- 
ding before  five  o’clock  the  next  morning.  He  rolled 
out  of  bed  and  made  the  curtain  rings  rasp  on  their 
brass  pole.  Thrusting  his  head  through  the  open  window  he 
could  have  shouted  for  joy.  Below  him  lay  a young  orchard 
running  down  a slope;  and  at  the  bottom,  about  a hundred 
yards  distant,  flowed  the  sparkling  river.  Overnight  he  had 
never  suspected  that  he  was  on  the  outskirts  of  Bulford,  with 
never  a house  between  his  nostrils  and  the  sweet  vale  of  the 
Deme. 

Just  under  the  window,  in  a tiny  yard  overhung  by  the 
nearest  trees  of  the  orchard,  a roughly  dressed  man  was  mov- 
ing about  softly.  It  was  Coggin  with  a pail  of  water  in  each 
hand. 

“Heavens,  Slogger,”  Edward  called  out.  “What  are  you 
up  to?” 

“Your  bath,”  Coggin  answered,  meekly,  and  he  vanished 
into  the  house. 

Edward  Redding  opened  his  bedroom  door  to  expostulate. 
He  nearly  fell  over  a large  empty  foot-bath,  and  half  a minute 
later  his  host,  carrying  a full  bucket,  appeared  on  the  landing. 

“There ’s  no  bathroom,”  Coggin  explained.  “You  see  I 
always  run  down  through  the  orchard  and  take  a plunge  in 
the  Deme.” 

“Not  in  winter?” 

“Winter  and  summer.” 

“The  devil  you  do!  Going  this  morning?” 

“Yes.  I sha’n’t  be  long  away,  Mr.  Edward.” 

60 


THE  DELIVERER 


61 


“Hold  on.  Look  here,  I ’m  coming  too.” 

He  jerked  back  into  his  room,  slammed  the  door,  hastily 
put  on  his  boots  and  clothes  and  rolled  up  a towel.  As  St. 
Michael’s  big  clock  thumped  five  the  two  young  men  were 
climbing  the  fence  of  the  orchard.  There  was  no  gate. 

‘ ‘ Hope  this  is  n ’t  Rambury ’s  orchard  we  ’re  trespassing 
in,”  muttered  Redding. 

“No.  I have  permission  to  use  the  path,”  Coggin  an- 
swered. “I  pay  a few  shillings  a year  rent  for  the  bit  of 
ground  my  bathing-hut  stands  on.” 

He  shewed  a key  with  which,  a minute  later,  he  unlocked  a 
little  cabin  of  tarred  wood,  set  snugly  between  the  trunks  of 
four  cherry  trees.  Coggin  made  his  visitor  use  the  hut;  and 
long  before  Redding  was  undressed  he  heard  a great  splash 
and  knew  that  Coggin  was  in  the  water. 

The  morning  sun  had  not  yet  warmed  the  air,  and  when 
Redding  had  made  only  half  his  run  towards  the  river  bank 
he  felt  like  turning  back  again.  But  he  trotted  on  and  made 
the  plunge  gamely. 

“I  was  just  thinking,”  said  a voice  in  his  ear  as  he  came 
to  the  surface,  “that  the  first  time  you  ever  spoke  to  me  was 
in  the  water,  like  this,  only  it  was  the  canal.  Do  you  remem- 
ber, Mr.  Edward  ?” 

Coggin  was  supporting  himself  by  a quiet  stroke  or  two, 
now  and  then,  and  his  tones  were  as  easy  as  if  he  had  been 
sitting  in  a chair  by  a warm  fire-side.  He  was  like  a fish  in 
water.  Redding,  however,  felt  as  if  he  had  been  pitched  into 
a bed  of  nettles.  Next  came  a sensation  as  of  toothache  all 
over  his  body.  He  tried  to  answer,  but  could  only  sputter 
and  gasp. 

“Go  back  and  rub  yourself  down,”  cried  Coggin  earnestly, 
“you ’ve  had  enough  for  the  first  day.  Do  please  go. ’ ’ 

The  novice  floundered  ashore.  While  he  was  drying  him- 
self his  teeth  chattered  like  ivory  dice  rattling  in  a box. 


62 


THE  HARE 


Coggin  swam  and  sported  for  five  minutes  more;  and  yet  he 
was  fully  dressed  before  the  door  of  the  cabin  opened.  A 
flannel  shirt,  corduroy  trousers,  a belt,  and  a rough  jacket 
did  not  take  long  to  put  on ; nor  was  it  a great  task  to  thrust 
bare  feet  into  a pair  of  clogs. 

“What  is  next  on  the  program  in  this  incredible  life  of 
yours,  Slogger  ? ” the  guest  asked,  as  they  reentered  the  house. 
“Grub,  I hope.” 

“Shave  and  wash,”  replied  the  host.  “Here ’s  your  hot 
water.  Breakfast  in  twenty  minutes.  Then  a gallop.” 

He  gave  Redding  a steaming  can,  and  having  filled  another 
for  himself,  walked  away  to  his  own  quarters.  Edward  sought 
the  stairs.  On  the  way,  he  espied  through  an  open  door  a room 
which  the  darkness  had  concealed  from  him  the  night  before. 
It  had  been  the  principal  room  in  the  old  Sunday  school,  and 
now  it  was  a library  and  music-room,  which  housed  two  or 
three  thousand  books,  about  twenty  pictures,  and  two  good 
pianos.  Redding,  although  he  had  inherited  very  little  of 
his  father’s  bookishness,  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  walk 
in  and  look  at  the  shelves.  He  perceived  at  once  that  most  of 
the  volumes  were  of  small  account;  but  in  a spacious  case 
against  the  furthest  wall  were  arranged  about  five  hundred 
good  and  valuable  books,  well-bound  and  well-preserved. 

At  breakfast  Coggin  still  wore  his  rough  clothes,  but  he 
had  put  on  a collar  and  had  changed  his  clogs  for  boots.  The 
meal  stood  in  strong  contrast  with  the  delicate  and  leisurely 
dinner  of  the  night  before.  Indeed,  if  his  appetite  had  not 
been  sharpened  by  the  walk  and  the  swim.  Redding  might 
have  shrunk  from  the  coarse  brown  table-cloth,  the  thick  mugs, 
the  peasant’s  knives  and  platters,  the  gammon  of  bacon  and 
the  big  cottage  loaf  which  met  his  eyes.  But  the  piping-hot 
coffee,  with  plenty  of  new  milk,  put  him  into  great  spirits, 
and  he  devoured  his  bread  and  bacon  with  relish. 


THE  DELIVERER  63 

“What ’s  this  about  a gallop?”  he  asked,  after  the  second 
slice. 

“My  business  takes  me  all  over  the  country  side,”  Coggin 
explained,  “so  I need  a horse.  On  days  when  I ’m  not  going 
to  use  him,  I try  to  give  him  a little  run  before  breakfast. 
Provided  it ’s  very  early  in  the  morning,  the  groundsman  at 
the  race-course  lets  me  go  there.  You  shall  gallop  Bay  Rum 
to-day,  Mr.  Edward.  ’ ’ 

“We  ’ll  take  turns.  I ’m  nearly  ready.  Yes,  just  half  a 
cup  more.  One  thing  though,  Slogger,  before  we  start.  You 
must  swear  that  my  being  here  sha’n’t  make  any  difference  to 
your  arrangements.  You  must  n’t  alter  a single  appointment, 
or  make  any  special  fuss  at  meals.” 

“I  always  breakfast  like  this,  and  there  will  be  only  cold 
beef  and  cheese  at  mid-day,  ’ ’ said  Coggin.  ‘ ‘ As  for  business, 
I ’m  not  going  to  sales  just  now.” 

“Why?  Oh,  I ’m  truly  sorry,  Slogger.  You  mean  you 
haven’t  the  capital?  Those  damned  pictures?  Still,  it’s 
just  as  well.  We  don’t  want  to  buy  any  more  stock.  We  ’re 
selling  off.  Enormous  reductions.  Many  lots  positively  be- 
low cost.  Owner  leasing  the  neighborhood.  Remember.  You 
gave  me  a promise  last  night.  I ’m  in  deadly  earnest.  Now, 
where ’s  the  gee-gee  ? ’ ’ 

Coggin  made  haste  to  lead  the  way,  evidently  jumping  at 
the  chance  of  evading  debate.  They  passed  through  the  airy 
chapel  just  as  the  clocks  were  tapping  and  tinkling  and  ding- 
ing and  dong-ing  the  hour  of  six.  When  they  gained  the 
street  they  found  it  deserted. 

A short  sharp  whistle  from  Coggin  was  answered  by  the 
creaking  of  a door  a few  yards  off,  and  a cheerful  youngster 
appeared  leading  Bay  Rum,  a very  handsome  Cleveland  bay, 
who  greeted  his  owner  with  much  pawing  and  neighing. 
Coggin,  however,  made  the  boy  mount  and  sent  him  cantering 


6*  THE  HARE 

on  in  front,  promising  to  catch  him  up  by  a short  path 
through  the  fields. 

“You  can  do  anything  you  like,  Mr.  Edward,  with  Bay 
Rum,”  said  Coggin,  when  they  arrived  at  the  lonely  race- 
course. “Walk  him,  gallop,  put  him  at  that  white  fence — it 
will  be  all  agreeable  to  Bay  Rum.” 

“Now  look  here,  Slogger,”  confessed  Redding.  “The 
shameful  truth  is  I ’ve  turned  muff.  I ’m  only  a fool  of  an 
artist  now-a-days.  Think  how  I funked  the  water  an  hour 
ago.  Have  your  gallop ; and  when  Bay  Rum  is  n ’t  quite  as 
fresh  we  ’ll  come  back  to  the  subject.  I mean  it.” 

Coggin  leapt  into  the  saddle.  His  clumsy  clothes  could  not 
hide  the  litheness  of  his  limbs  and  the  grace  of  his  movements. 
He  and  Bay  Rum  went  off  like  the  wind.  As  they  reached  the 
far  side  of  the  field,  Edward  Redding  felt  just  one  prick  of 
mortification.  Thirteen  years  before  he  had  once  ridden  his 
own  pony  on  this  very  turf.  At  that  time  Harry  Coggin  was 
sorting  rubbish  in  a marine-store.  Yet  here  stood  he,  Red- 
ding, all  soft  and  nervous,  while  Coggin  and  Bay  Rum,  like  a 
jockey  and  a race-horse  on  Bulford  Cup-day,  tore  along  with 
a thundering  of  hoofs,  hugging  the  white  railings.  But  he  did 
not  allow  the  pique  to  last.  Mounting  Bay  Rum  in  his  turn  he 
made  a creditable  show,  and  felt  the  better  for  it  in  soul  and 
body. 

“ Solvit ur  gallopando,”  he  chuckled,  as  he  dismounted. 
“Here  is  my  program.  If  some  land-grabber  hasn’t  blocked 
it  up,  there ’s  a track  from  near  the  Grand  Stand  through  the 
meadows  to  Broken  Bridge.  I ’m  an  old  man  now,  with  a 
failing  memory ; but  I ’d  swear  Broken  Bridge  is  not  a mile 
away.  Half  a mile  further  on  stands  Leffington  Station,  on 
the  Demehaven  railway.  I ’m  going  to  tramp  it  to  Leffington. 
I shall  come  into  Bulford  by  train,  and  to-night  I shall  go  out 
of  Bulford  by  train,  too.  Only  I shall  get  out  at  Leffington, 


THE  DELIVERER 


65 


and  work  home  by  the  riverside,  and  get  back  to  your  kitchen 
by  way  of  that  path  through  the  orchard.  That  is  ...  if 
you’ll  have  me.  Don’t  expect  me  for  lunch.  And  mind  you 
begin  packing  up.  I ’m  off.” 


CHAPTER  VI 


EITHER  the  hand  of  Providence  or  an  amazing  bit  of 
luck  delivered  the  enemy  into  Edward  Redding's 
hands  even  before  he  had  given  up  his  ticket  from 
Leffington  to  the  collector  at  Bulford  Station.  Gaping  at  the 
little  book-stall  stool  Bully  Tranter,  as  lumpish  as  ever. 
Redding's  first  impulse  was  to  dodge  him ; but  second  thoughts, 
pressing  hard  on  the  first,  bade  him  seize  his  opportunity. 

Tranter's  heavy  countenance  lightened  with  sincere  delight 
as  soon  as  his  sluggish  wits  had  accomplished  the  task  of  rec- 
ollecting his  old  school-mate.  This  joy  did  not  spring  from 
any  affection  for  Edward  Redding.  It  was  merely  his  im- 
mense pleasure  at  having  somebody  to  talk  with  whose  topics 
would  be  of  boyish  caliber.  Tranter  had  attained  the  age  of 
twenty-six,  and  wore  a beard  and  long  side-whiskers,  but  he 
had  not  put  away  childish  things,  and  he  preferred  the  past  to 
the  present. 

“Do  you  do  anything,  Tranter?"  asked  Redding,  who  re- 
membered that  Tranter's  family  were  not  reputed  opulent. 
“Are  you  a lawyer,  architect,  prize-fighter,  doctor,  tripe- 
dresser,  poet,  gas-fitter,  or  what?  Perhaps  you  're  a peer  of 
the  realm.  Met  Puffer  Batwood  the  other  day  and  found  he 
was  a baronet." 

“I  live  with  my  aunt,"  replied  the  huge  young  man's  small 
voice. 

“That 's  all?  A self-sacrificing  profession.  Sometimes  a 
lucrative  one.  But  what  are  you  doing  this  morning  ? 
You  're  not  living  with  your  aunt  in  front  of  this  bookstall,  are 
you?" 


66 


THE  DELIVERER 


67 


“I ’ve  come  to  buy  a paper  for  my  aunt.” 

Redding  scrutinized  tbe  flabby  giant  narrowly.  The  plan 
which  he  had  suddenly  formed  in  his  mind  was  a tremendously 
risky  one.  Failure  would  forewarn  and  forearm  Coggin’s 
foes,  and  they  might  triumph  after  all.  He  hesitated.  But 
not  for  long.  Something  told  him  that  he  had  stumbled  on 
one  of  the  enemy’s  key  positions,  and  that  by  a bold  rush  he 
might  become  master  of  the  entire  situation.  He  decided  to 
attack. 

“Then  leave  the  paper  at  auntie’s,  if  it  is  n’t  far  from  here,” 
he  said,  “and  then,  as  you ’ve  nothing  to  do,  why  not  join  me 
in  a prowl  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  tell  all  about  Bulford  and 
the  Bulf ordites  1 ’ ’ 

Tranter  was  delighted.  On  the  way  to  his  aunt’s  house  in 
Hanover  Grove  he  chatted  like  a child,  wandering  from  one 
story  to  another  and  repeatedly  taking  it  for  granted  that  his 
auditor  knew  who  was  who,  even  in  the  most  complicated 
narratives  of  quite  recent  events.  Redding  wore  the  air  of  an 
interested  listener;  but  he  was  intent  upon  his  plan.  With- 
out naming  the  goal  he  drew  Tranter  out  of  the  busier  streets 
through  the  quiet  shade  of  Beech  Lane.  In  twenty  minutes 
they  had  reached  the  spot  which  suited  Redding’s  tactics. 

“Why,  we  ’re  at  Madman’s  Leap!”  cried  Tranter. 

Madman’s  Leap  was  Bulford ’s  great  natural  curiosity.  A 
small  headland  or  cliff  of  sandstone,  as  sheer  as  a wall,  de- 
scended into  a tiny  lake.  On  the  opposite  shore  rose  a mag- 
nificent oak-tree ; and  there  was  a legend  that  some  dare-devil 
youth  had  lost  his  life  in  trying  to  spring  from  the  brink  of  the 
cliff  to  a great  limb  of  the  tree  growing  out  over  the  narrow 
water.  A rustic  bench  had  been  placed  well  back  from  the 
edge. 

The  two  climbers  were  hardly  seated  when  Tranter’s  tongue 
began  wagging  again.  He  had  a silly  bubbling  laugh  which 
made  a good  part  of  his  reminiscences  unintelligible.  At  last, 


68 


THE  HARE 


however,  Redding  cocked  his  ears.  The  name  of  Rambury 
Secundus  was  pronounced  with  reverence.  Then  followed  an 
admiring  account  of  Rambury ’s  cleverness,  Rambury ’s  won- 
derful wife  from  London,  Rambury ’s  singing,  Rambury ’s 
properties,  Rambury ’s  great  acquaintances.  It  was  evident 
that  Tranter  felt  honored  by  any  kind  of  association  with 
Rambury. 

“What  about  Coggin,  Harry  Coggin,  who  won  the  Scholar- 
ship ?”  asked  Redding  suddenly. 

‘ ‘ Coggin  ? Have  n ’t  you  heard  ? Go  on ! Everybody 
knows.  Coggin ’s  done  brown,  fairly  done  brown  at  last. 
By  Jove,  I must  tell  you.  Tremendous  fun.” 

He  gurgled  and  bubbled  out  a spiteful  version  of  the  story 
which  Redding  had  heard  from  the  victim’s  own  lips  the  night 
before — the  concerts,  the  pictures,  and  even  the  present  im- 
pecuniosity  of  Coggin. 

“You  seem  glad  he ’s  come  to  grief,  Tranter,”  said  Red- 
ding, controlling  himself. 

“Of  course  I ’m  glad.  There  was  far  too  much  fuss  made 
over  that  dirty  little  old-clo’  boy.  He  wouldn’t  keep  his 
place.  Actually  thought  he  could  join  the  Choral  Society. 
He ’s  done  now,  anyhow ; done  brown.  ’ ’ 

The  moment  had  come. 

Tranter  was  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  bench,  his  elbow  rest- 
ing on  the  curved  rustic-work.  Redding  arose ; turned  to  face 
Tranter;  planted  one  knee  on  the  bench  so  as  to  pen  Tranter 
in  closely ; and  then  spoke. 

“Mr.  Tranter,”  he  said,  in  subdued  but  terrible  tones, 
“hark  to  me.  At  school  I despised  you.  We  called  you  Bully 
Tranter.  I despise  you  now.  At  six-and-twenty  you  simply 
sponge  on  your  aunt.  Yet  here  you  are  giggling  out  sneers 
at  a man — d ’ye  hear? — at  a man,  a real  man,  whose  boots 
you  aren’t  fit  to  black.  You  miserable  hound,  I ’ve  half  a 
mind  to  chuck  you  over  the  cliff.” 


THE  DELIVERER 


69 


Tranter  tried  to  titter.  But  Redding’s  eyes  were  piercing 
him  through,  and  the  sound  died  on  his  lips.  Surprise 
changed  to  stupefaction,  and  stupefaction  to  cringing  terror. 

“ I . . . did  n ’t  mean  it  . . . Mr.  Redding,  ’ ’ he  whimpered. 

“Yes,  you  did,  Bully  Tranter,  Coward  Tranter.  And  I 
meant  my  words  too.  But  I ’m  not  going  to  chuck  you  over 
the  cliff  just  yet.  You  are  going  to  tell  me,  here  and  now, 
who  played  that  dirty  trick  against  Coggin’s  concerts.  An- 
swer. ’ ’ 

“I  . . . don’t  know.” 

“You  do.  Answer.  Or  over  the  cliff  you  go,  and  a nice 
ducking  you  ’ll  have,  and  perhaps  a broken  head  into  the  bar- 
gain. ’ ’ 

“On  my  honor  ...” 

“Your  honor  be  damned.” 

Bully  Tranter  began  to  cry.  He  cried  in  a blubbering  style 
which  made  him  shake  like  an  ill-made,  top-heavy  jelly.  Red- 
ding ’s  lip  curled  with  contempt.  He  suddenly  felt  convinced, 
however,  that  the  big  cry-baby  was  indeed  ignorant  concerning 
the  wrecker  of  the  concerts.  So  he  attacked  in  another  place. 

“Very  well,”  he  said,  sharply.  “The  pictures.  I suppose 
you  ’ll  say,  on  your  honor,  you  were  not  behind  the  scenes  as 
regards  the  pictures?  This  time  you  ’re  going  to  answer  me, 
Bully.  Stop  snuffling  and  speak  up.  I give  you  thirty  sec- 
onds.” 

Tranter’s  lips  worked,  as  if  attempting  to  frame  words. 
But  instead  of  words  came  a moaning  cry.  At  last  he  whined, 
“I  can’t,  oh  I can’t!” 

“Now  look  here,”  said  Redding,  rather  less  harshly. 
“You ’ve  got  to  choose.  You  ’re  afraid  that  if  you  tell  me 
you  ’ll  get  into  trouble  with  . . . with  Rambury.  Guessed 
right,  haven’t  I,  Bully?  Very  well.  But  mark  this.  If 
you  refuse  to  tell  me  . . . why,  then  you  ’ll  have  to  reckon 
with  Slogger  Coggin.  Do  you  think  he ’s  going  to  sit  down  like 


70 


THE  HARE 


a lamb  and  let  a cur  like  Rambury  and  a jack-ass  like  you 
conspire  against  him  and  ruin  him?  No,  no,  Bully,  my  boy. 
That  isn't  Slogger.  He  puts  up  with  insults  and  injuries 
meekly  a long  time;  but  he  explodes  like  Mount  Vesuvius  at 
last.  Do  you  remember,  Mr.  Tranter,  how  he  pitched  Curring- 
ton  into  the  canal,  and  knocked  you  and  Rambury  Primus 
down  like  nine-pins,  all  in  two  minutes?  He  was  only  a boy 
then.  He 's  a man  now.  Look  out.  He 's  going  to  put  you 
all  in  prison.  Or,  if  he  can't  do  that,  he  'll  come  and  nearly 
kill  the  lot  of  you." 

Tranter  put  up  a huge  soft  hand  as  if  to  ward  away  the 
first  blow. 

“Yes,  Mr.  Tranter.  He  'll  nearly  kill  you.  How  will  you 
like  two  black  eyes?  And  your  teeth  knocked  out?  And  a 
few  ribs  broken  ? And  your  neck  wrung  ? ' ' 

The  terrified  giant,  wrenching  himself  clear  of  his  tormen- 
tor's knee,  sprang  up  and  tried  to  bolt.  He  did  not  waddle 
far.  Redding,  always  fleet  of  foot,  overtook  him  less  than  a 
dozen  yards  from  the  bench;  and  the  runaway  felt  a strong 
hand  gripping  his  coat  collar  and  hard  knuckles  kneading  his 
neck. 

Edward  Redding's  wrath  and  scorn  increased  a hundred- 
fold at  the  touch  of  this  lumping  loafer's  unwholesome  flesh. 
He  recalled  Harry  Coggin  as  he  had  seen  him  during  these  last 
twenty  four  hours — Coggin  humbly  mending  arm-chairs,  Cog- 
gin  playing  majestically  on  the  organ,  Coggin  sitting  over  his 
wine  like  a gentleman  of  the  old  school,  Coggin  cooking  like  a 
cordon  bleu,  Coggin  galloping  round  Bulford  race-course,  and, 
above  all,  Coggin's  clean  muscular  limbs  thrusting  through 
the  smarting  water  of  the  bright,  cold  river.  To  think,  that 
Coggin,  at  this  moment,  was  alone  in  his  big  chapel,  eating 
his  heart  out,  through  the  foul  play  of  a lout  like  this ! Ed- 
ward Redding  had  not  meant  it  when  a few  minutes  before, 
he  was  threatening  to  tip  Tranter  over  the  brink  of  the  little 


THE  DELIVERER 


71 


cliff;  but,  all  of  a sudden,  his  palms  itched  to  grab  the 
wretched  animal  by  seat  and  by  scruff  and  to  hurl  him  out 
of  sight,  like  something  that  had  gone  bad. 

“Don’t  try  that  on  again,’’  he  commanded  sternly,  as  he 
forced  Tranter  back  into  his  old  place  on  the  bench.  “If  you 
do,  I ’ll  bundle  you  straight  off  to  Slogger  Coggin.  I gave 
you  thirty  seconds.  The  time ’s  more  than  up.  Out  with  the 
whole  truth.  ’ ’ 

By  this  time  Tranter  was  crying  gently  with  his  whole  great 
soft  body.  With  a very  large  and  gay  silk  handkerchief,  which 
he  constantly  folded  and  re-folded  into  an  oblong  pad,  he  kept 
wiping  his  gray-green  eyes.  Redding  saw  that  he  had  better 
abandon  hope  of  extracting  a clear  confession  from  such  a 
creature;  so  he  proceeded  to  put  a long  series  of  questions, 
such  as  could  be  answered  with  a Yes  or  a No. 

At  the  end  of  half-an-hour  Redding  could  no  longer  harbor 
one  lingering  doubt.  There  had  been  a conspiracy  against 
Coggin,  and  Albert  Rambury  was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Red- 
ding, however,  had  a judicial  mind  at  the  back  of  his  whim- 
sical manner  and  he  knew  that,  despite  his  inward  persuasion 
of  Rambury ’s  guilt,  he  had  elicited  no  substantial  proofs. 
He  soon  perceived  that,  while  Tranter  had  knowingly  acted 
as  cat’s-paw,  Rambury  had  been  the  soul  of  prudence,  and 
that  he  could  not  be  compromised  by  anything  Tranter  might 
say.  The  plot  had  evidently  been  diabolical  in  its  cold- 
blooded cleverness  and  completeness. 

When  nearly  five  minutes  had  elapsed  without  a further 
question  from  Redding,  Tranter  began : 

“I  didn’t  think.  I never  thought.  I didn’t  ...” 

“Hold  your  tongue,”  rapped  out  Redding.  “Speak  when 
I ask  you  to.  Don ’t  you  see  I ’m  thinking  ? ’ ’ 

His  thoughts  lasted  a long  while.  But  at  last  he  slapped  the 
bench  and  grunted:  “Good!  Now  then,  I can’t  sit  here  all 
day.  Get  up.  Come  along.  ’ ’ 


72 


THE  HARE 


“Not  to  Slogger  Coggin ’s?”  squealed  Tranter. 

“ No.  Not  yet,  anyhow.  Perhaps  never,  so  long  as  you  ’ll 
do  exactly  what  I tell  you.  Look  here,  Bully,  to  tell  the  truth 
I ’m  a bit  sorry  for  you.  You  can’t  help  being  a damned  fool, 
can  you?” 

“No,  I can’t,”  agreed  Tranter  meekly. 

“Well,  I suspect  you ’ve  been  dragged  into  this  and  you 
were  n ’t  man  enough  to  back  out  of  it.  But  mark  me  well. 
There ’s  only  one  condition  on  which  I can  ask  Coggin  to  let 
you  off  prison  and  to  leave  some  whole  bones  in  your  body. 
It ’s  this.  You  helped  to  get  Coggin  into  disgrace.  Now,  will 
you  help  to  get  him  out?” 

“Oh,  yes,  yes!” 

“Right.  Now,  we  ’ll  go  and  see  your  aunt.  No,  don’t  be 
afraid.  I sha’n’t  tell  her  any  details.  You  have  simply  to 
agree  with  all  I say  in  her  presence.  If  you  don’t,  I wash  my 
hands  of  you.  ’ ’ 

“No,  no  please,”  wailed  Tranter.  “My  aunt  mustn’t 
know  anything.  ’ ’ 

“She ’d  have  to  know  something,  would  n’t  she,  if  they  came 
to  take  you  to  prison  ? Or  if  they  brought  you  home  in  bits 
on  a stretcher,  like  sirloins  of  beef  and  legs  of  mutton  on  a 
butcher-boy ’s  tray  ? Trust  me  to  manage  it ; and  come  along.  ’ ’ 


CHAPTER  VII 


REDDING’S  pleasant  feeling  of  mastery  weakened  as 
he  strode  townward,  and  it  had  vanished  entirely  by 
the  time  Tranter  unlatched  the  garden  gate  of  Grove 
House.  To  dominate  a bulky,  pulpy,  cowardly  muff  was 
child’s  play;  but  to  tackle  an  elderly  aunt,  a house-holder,  and 
probably  as  sour  as  vinegar,  might  be  beyond  his  powers. 
The  fine  up-keep  of  the  lawn  and  flower-beds  disturbed  him; 
and  when  he  entered  the  house  its  air  of  perfect  management 
filled  him  with  dismay. 

This,  however,  was  one  of  Edward’s  lucky  days.  While 
he  was  waiting  in  the  morning-room  for  Miss  Tranter  to  ap- 
pear, his  glance  fell  on  a pile  of  magazines,  dated  June,  which 
had  been  delivered  at  the  house  only  a few  minutes  before  his 
arrival.  It  was  evident  that  Miss  Tranter  was  a reader.  A 
familiar  design  on  the  cover  of  one  of  these  periodicals  caught 
Redding’s  eye.  Snapping  up  the  magazine,  he  turned  its 
pages  until  he  found  what  he  sought — a half-page  wood-cut 
with  the  words  Edward  Redding  del . underneath  in  the  left- 
hand  corner.  It  was  a drawing  in  which  the  draughtsman  had 
felt  pride  and  pleasure;  and  the  engraver  had  risen  to  the 
occasion. 

Standing  engrossed  in  the  comparison  of  his  own  drawing 
with  the  wood-engraver’s  version,  Edward  Redding  did  not 
notice  the  entrance  of  a handsome,  good-tempered,  well-dressed 
woman.  Indeed,  the  softly -moving  lady  had  sailed  almost  to 
his  elbow  when  he  dropped  the  magazine  with  a start  and 
stammered  his  excuses. 

“I  am  going  to  call  you  Teddie,  as  in  the  old  days,”  said 
the  lady,  smiling  adorably. 


73 


THE  HARE 


74 

“Why  ...  it ’s  Mrs.  Hilliard,’ ’ gasped  Edward. 

“Of  course  it  is.  You  look  splendid,  Teddie.  Dear  me, 
how  you  do  remind  me  of  your  poor  father.  When  he  first 
came  to  Bulford  he  looked  just  as  you  look  now.  And  how 
is  he  ? And  your  dear  mother  ? ’ ’ 

After  Edward  had  answered  these  questions,  and  had  play- 
fully reminded  Mrs.  Hilliard  of  the  many  occasions  on  which 
he  had  been  secretly  haled  into  old  Glebe  Lodge  house,  for 
sherry  and  cake,  he  tried  to  explain  himself.  “I  have  taken 
the  liberty  of  calling  on  Miss  Tranter/  ’ he  said. 

“Miss  Tranter ?"  echoed  the  lady,  puckering  a smooth 
brow  under  her  silver  hair.  “Oh,  I see,  I see ! You  've  made 
a mistake.  You  Ve  concluded  my  nephew  Alfred  Tranter's 
aunt  must  be  a Miss  Tranter.  Now  why?  Haven't  you  a 
maternal  aunt  yourself,  Teddie  ? And  must  every  aunt  be  an 
old  maid  ? Are  all  your  own  aunts  spinsters,  and  are  they  all 
sumamed  Redding?" 

“I 'm  very  stupid,"  confessed  Redding.  “But,"  he  added 
gallantly,  “I 'm  also  very  lucky  to  find  you  instead  of  a Miss 
Tranter.  The  first  beauty  who  captured  my  young  heart  was 
Mrs.  Hilliard  of  Glebe  Lodge." 

“Mrs.  Hilliard  of  Sherry  and  Cake,"  said  the  lady  correct- 
ing him.  “And  I notice  I was  only  the  first.  Who  is  the 
last,  I wonder?  You  are  evidently  of  a romantic  disposition, 
poor  Teddie;  for  didn’t  I catch  you  gloating  over  a picture 
of  lovers  in  this  magazine  ? I can  find  the  very  page.  I saw 
it  over  your  shoulder.  Yes,  here  it  is.  Eileen  and  Algernon 
burning  a letter,  while  somebody — I think  it  must  be  Sir  Guy — 
can  be  seen  through  the  open  window  galloping  away  in  the 
sunset.  Well,  well!  I guessed,  chapters  and  chapters  ago, 
that  Eileen  would — oh!" 

Mrs.  Hilliard's  roving  eye  had  suddenly  encountered  the 
legend  Edward  Redding  del.  The  magazine  dropped  out  of 
her  hand ; but  before  the  artist  could  stoop  to  pick  it  up,  she 


THE  DELIVERER 


75 


had  clutched  it  again.  Rolling  it  up  tightly  with  her  strong 
white  fingers,  she  whacked  Redding  smartly  across  the  shoul- 
ders. 

“You  young  rascal,”  she  cried. 

She  tripped  off  to  the  window,  where  the  morning  sunlight 
was  strong,  and  examined  the  picture  more  closely.  Seen 
through  the  rose-colored  glasses  of  her  motherly  fondness  for 
Teddie,  it  became  a master-piece  in  her  eyes.  She  poured  out 
twenty  questions.  How  had  he  won  fame  so  early?  Did  he 
send  pictures  to  the  Royal  Academy  Exhibition?  Could  he 
paint  cats  from  life;  and,  if  so,  would  he  paint  Scorner,  the 
proudest  and  handsomest  pussy-cat  in  all  Bulford?  Who 
was  his  model  for  Eileen,  and  had  the  real-life  young  lady 
truly  got  such  wonderful  tresses  of  hair?  And  did  he  know 
what  was  the  end  of  the  story?  Was  it  a false  alarm  that 
Eileen  had  been  sentenced  by  the  family  physician  to  an  early 
death  from  consumption? 

“Even  if  I had  been  shewn  the  rest  of  the  MS.  or  proofs,” 
answered  Teddie,  with  dignity,  “my  lips  would  be  sealed. 
All  I can  say  is  that  my  next  and  last  drawing  will  depict 
Eileen,  in  the  pink  of  health  and  with  a wedding-ring  on  her 
finger,  nestling  against  Algernon  on  the  terrace  of  a hotel  by 
the  Rhine,  just  as  a full  moon  has  worked  itself  behind  a ruined 
castle  on  a vine-clad  hill.  To  the  left  a door  is  opening,  as 
if  the  waiter  is  about  to  bring  in  sherry  and  cake.” 

“Sherry  and  cake,”  Mrs.  Hilliard  echoed,  “oh,  I remem- 
ber, you  were  always  greedy.” 

“No,  madam.  Always  hungry.” 

“Hungry  and  greedy.  Well,  it  happens  you  ’ve  come  in 
the  very  nick  of  time.  I expected  the  new  curate  of  St. 
Peter’s  and  his  wife  to  luncheon.  They ’ve  just  sent  word 
they  can ’t  come.  I insist  on  your  taking  their  place.  ’ ’ 

“Not  place,  ma’am.  Places.  I shall  make  up  for  both  of 
them.  And  I am  honored  and  flattered  by  the  invitation. 


76 


THE  HARE 


This  morning  I have  all  the  luck.  I came  here  on  distasteful 
business  and  it  is  turning  into  delightful  pleasure/ ’ 

“Ah!  I ’d  forgotten.  You  wanted  to  see  Alfred’s  aunt— 
Miss  Tranter  as  you  called  her.  Out  with  your  business.  Get 
it  over.  Is  Alfred  in  a scrape?  Don’t  be  afraid  of  upsetting 
me.  So  long  as  it ’s  nothing  dishonorable  I should  be  delighted 
to  hear  he ’s  been  up  to  mischief.  But  I sha’n’t  believe  it. 
He  hasn’t  the  spirit.  Alfred’s  just  a great  baby,  tied  to  his 
auntie’s  apron-strings.” 

“I  am  compelled  to  disappoint  you,”  Redding  answered. 
And,  speaking  slowly  with  many  pauses,  he  went  on:  “Alfred 
has  not  exactly  been  up  to  mischief.  But  certain  persons 
appear  to  have  dragged  him  into  an  affair  which  may  turn  out 
annoying  and  expensive,  for  him  and  for  them.  ’ ’ 

“Alfred  with  bad  companions?”  asked  the  incredulous  lady. 

“Not  in  the  ordinary  sense.  His  associates  in  this  business 
would  all  be  called  highly  respectable  citizens,”  replied  Red- 
ding. 

“I  am  baffled,”  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  beginning  to  be  anxious. 
A long  and  awkward  pause  followed. 

“Mrs.  Hilliard,”  burst  out  Teddie,  “I  am  going  to  tell  you 
everything.  If  you  had  been  Miss  Tranter — the  Miss  Tranter 
I imagined — instead  of  your  true,  wise,  good  kind  self,  I 
couldn’t  have  risked  it.  Can  you  spare  me  half-an-hour ? 
And  can  you  send  Alfred  right  out  of  the  way  till  I ’ve  done?” 

Alfred  was  summoned.  The  whiskered  giant  sidled  into 
the  room  fearfully,  his  poor  little  eyes  both  bright  with  fresh 
tears.  When  he  had  received  nothing  worse  than  a command 
to  go  into  town  and  match  some  wool  for  his  aunt,  he  almost 
gamboled  down  the  garden  path,  like  a frisky  elephant. 

Edward  Redding  began  his  tale.  On  first  pronouncing  the 
name  of  Coggin  he  glanced  at  his  auditor  nervously;  for  he 
knew  that  Mrs.  Hilliard  was  of  the  straiter  Bulford  set.  The 
lady  heard  him,  however,  without  one  pout.  Indeed  her  at- 


THE  DELIVERER 


77 


tention  was  so  close  and  her  sympathy  so  evident  that  the 
young  man ’s  tongue  was  loosened ; and  when  he  warmed  up  to 
an  eloquent  arraignment  of  Coggin ’s  torturers  her  fine  brown 
eyes  grew  dim. 

“It  is  a shame,  a shame,’ ’ she  cried,  as  the  story  ended. 
“I  know  this  Coggin.  When  my  husband  died,  and  I could 
no  longer  bear  to  live  at  Glebe  Lodge,  I remembered  how  your 
dear  father  had  suffered  for  the  poor  boy,  and  I sent  for  him 
to  clear  away  some  lumber.  His  civility  and  honesty  and  intel- 
ligence and  industry  impressed  me  so  deeply  that  I gradu- 
ally found  myself  giving  the  whole  work  of  the  removal  and 
the  re-furnishing  into  his  hands.  He  was  extraordinary. 
Why,  he  even  advised  me  about  the  wines,  which  to  keep  and 
which  to  sell ; and  when  I stumbled  on  a note-book  Mr.  Hilliard 
had  made,  it  turned  out  that  young  Coggin  had  given  me  ad- 
vice which  was  not  only  sound  but  disinterested.  No  wonder 
people  are  jealous  of  him.  What  you  say  disgusts  me.  I 
thought  the  young  man  was  succeeding  well.  You  see,  I 
don’t  hear  much  about  Bulford  doings.  And  now,  Teddie, 
tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do.” 

“I  want  you,”  Redding  answered,  without  a moment’s  hesi- 
tation, “to  let  me  send  Alfred  to-morrow  morning  to  France.” 

“Alfred  . . . France!”  Mrs  Hilliard  almost  shrieked 
these  two  proper  names.  Then  she  gurgled  “Oh,”  in  so 
strange  a tone  that  Redding  could  n’t  tell  whether  she  was  ter- 
ribly frightened  or  overwhelmingly  amused.  He  added 
eagerly : 

“It  sounds  mad,  but  it  isn’t.  Please,  do  trust  me.  A 
friend  of  mine  shall  pilbt  him  across  London,  and  the  English 
clergyman  shall  keep  an  eye  on  him  in  Boulogne.  Early  next 
week  he  ought  to  be  back,  with  a just  action  to  his  credit. 
Alfred  shall  come  to  no  harm.  Besides,  apart  from  his  do- 
ing the  right  thing  by  Coggin,  we  must  make  a man  of  him. 
We  must  give  him  responsibility.  Pardon  my  impertinence; 


78 


THE  HARE 


but  sending  Alfred  to  France  to  clear  the  honor  of  an  injured 
man  strikes  me  as  a better  prescription  than  sending  him  to 
Belling  & Belling ’s  to  match  your  coral-pink  wool.  Say  that 
you  consent.  ’ ’ 

Mrs.  Hilliard  rose  as  he  finished  speaking.  “Please  excuse 
me,”  she  said,  rather  coldly.  “The  gardener  is  waiting  for 
me.  Here  is  the  morning  paper.  I will  answer  your  request 
after  luncheon.” 

Redding  bowed  to  her  submissively  as  he  passed  out  of  the 
room.  He  closed  the  door  behind  her  gently  and  loitered  back 
to  the  window,  half  afraid  that  he  had  blundered.  At  that 
moment  Bully  Tranter  reached  the  garden  gate.  With  one  of 
his  big  paws  be  fumbled  the  latch,  and  in  the  other  he  warmed 
a hank  of  scarlet  wool,  having  lost  his  bit  of  coral-pink  on  the 
outward  journey.  Teddie  heard  him  open  and  shut  the  front 
door,  heard  him  stumbling  against  the  umbrella-stand  in  the 
hall,  heard  him  lumping  upstairs.  Five  minutes  later  a bell 
rang  and  Mrs.  Hilliard  appeared. 

“Luncheon  is  ready,”  she  said,  “and  Alfred  may  go  to 
France.” 

As  Edward  Redding  was  a luxury-loving  young  man,  Mrs. 
Hilliard’s  dining-room  consoled  and  refreshed  him.  Dinner 
at  Harry  Coggin’s  had  been  a memorable  and  edifying  expe- 
rience, but  it  was  pleasant  to  be  seated  again  amidst  the  con- 
ventional, yet  ever-delightful  refinements  of  his  own  class. 
The  meal  having  been  planned  for  a married  curate,  might 
have  been  called  too  solid ; and  on  such  a warm  day,  Edward 
would  gladly  have  exchanged  the  old  Yolnay  for  a light 
claret;  but  the  silver  laugh  of  the  hostess  and  her  delicate 
ironies  about  the  guest’s  romantic  drawings  made  the  luncheon 
as  light  as  omelettes  and  as  sprightly  as  champagne. 

Hardly  giving  the  young  men  time  to  eat  their  cheese,  Mrs. 


THE  DELIVERER  79 

Hilliard  suddenly  rose  and  said : ‘ ‘ Mr.  Redding  wants  to  tell 
you  something,  Alfred.  I approve  of  the  arrangement.  ’ ’ 

As  soon  as  they  were  left  alone,  Redding  turned  to  Tranter, 
who  had  begun  to  heap  his  plate  with  horribly  mangled  Brazil 
nuts,  and  announced : 

“Mr.  Alfred  Tranter,  you  will  catch  the  nine  o’clock  train 
to  London  to-morrow  morning.  You  will  he  met  by  my  friend 
Tony  Corbett,  who  will  give  you  something  to  eat  at  a chop- 
house  or  at  his  club.  Mr.  Corbett  will  afterwards  put  you  in 
another  train.  You  are  going  to  France — to  Boulogne. 
Don’t  goggle  at  me  like  that.  In  Boulogne  you  will  shew 
an  addressed  envelope,  which  I shall  give  you,  to  the  first 
cabby  you  meet.  He  will  take  you  to  the  Hotel  de  l’Espagne. 
The  landlord  speaks  English.  Without  loss  of  time  you  will 
report  yourself  to  the  English  clergyman.  He  will  tell  you 
where  to  find  my  friend  Paul  Grandet,  a painter,  who  also 
speaks  English.  With  Monsieur  Grandet  you  will  seek  out 
Mr.  Frederick  Venn-Venning.” 

Although  Redding  paused  after  pronouncing  Venn-Ven- 
ning’s  name,  Tranter  uttered  no  word  or  sound.  He  sat  as 
one  petrified. 

“From  Mr.  Venn-Venning,”  Redding  continued,  “you  will 
obtain  a full  confession.  It  must  be  in  writing,  and  it  must 
be  sworn  before  the  British  consul.  If  he  refuses  or  even 
hesitates,  or  if  he  writes  out  a statement  which  does  not  ab- 
solutely clear  Coggin’s  character,  you  are  not  to  coax  him. 
You  are  simply  to  tell  him  that  Slogger  Coggin  and  Teddie  Red- 
ding will  come  to  Boulogne  at  once.  If  he  runs  away  to  Brus- 
sels or  Homburg  or  Spa  or  any  of  his  other  haunts,  we  shall 
hunt  him  down.  Make  it  plain  to  him  that  he  will  be  publicly 
thrashed  and  that  Slogger  will  nearly  kill  him,  even  if  we  must 
go  to  the  Ural  mountains  to  do  it.  Further,  after  we  have 
assaulted  and  battered  him,  we  shall  hand  him  over  to  Justice. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  will  straightforwardly  acknowledge 


80 


THE  HARE 


his  guilt  you  may  assure  him  that  we  shall  not  be  revengeful; 
and  if,  after  reading  his  confession,  we  find  that  some  other 
person  or  persons  had  a hand  in  the  affair,  we  shall  inflict  the 
chief  punishment  on  the  most  culpable  party.  I repeat  that 
you  must  not  argue  with  Venn -Yenning.  And  don’t  waste  a 
moment.  Refuse  absolutely  to  give  time  for  consideration. 
Don’t  say  that  Slogger  and  I are  in  Bulford.  Let  him  fear 
we  are  close  at  hand.  The  moment  you  succeed  or  fail,  send 
a long  telegram  to  Coggin,  furniture  dealer,  Bulford,  England. 
Then  come  straight  back  here.” 

Redding  paused  again.  Tranter  remained  as  voiceless  and 
motionless  as  a tailor’s  dummy.  He  was  roused,  however,  by 
the  return  of  Mrs.  Hilliard. 

‘ 4 Well?”  asked  the  lady,  “is  all  settled?” 

“I  have  told  your  nephew  what  I wish  him  to  do,  and  he 
has  not  made  the  slightest  objection,”  Redding  answered. 
“He  starts  to-morrow,  early.  With  your  leave,  ma’am,  I will 
accompany  him  to  his  room  and  give  him  some  advice  while 
he  packs  his  things.” 

The  first  words  emitted  by  Bully  Tranter  concerning  his 
errand  were  spoken  in  the  bedroom.  “Do  you  think,”  he 
asked  meekly,  “these  will  be  enough  shirts?” 

Redding  looked  into  the  deep  drawer.  While  he  was  turn- 
ing over  about  two  dozen  garments,  ranging  from  winter  shirts 
of  flannel  to  evening  shirts  of  pleated  silk,  Tranter  knelt 
down,  about  as  gracefully  as  a loaded  camel,  and  began  drag- 
ging ever  so  many  pairs  of  boots  and  shoes  from  under  the 
bed. 

“You  are  going  to  Boulogne  for  less  than  a week,”  replied 
Redding.  “You  are  not  going  to  discover  the  North  Pole 
or  the  source  of  the  River  Nile.  Let  me  throw  what  you  need 
on  the  bed.  Meanwhile  find  the  small  things.  Hair-brush, 
nail-brush,  tooth-brush  . . . Where ’s  your  razor?” 


THE  DELIVERER 


81 


“I  ...  I don’t  shave. ” 

“Then  it ’s  time  you  did.  That  ridiculous  beard  is  the  ruin 
of  you.  Handkerchiefs,  collars,  cravats  . . . What  about 
your  pocket  Bible  ? Here  it  is  4 Presented  to  Alfred  Tranter 
by  his  loving  aunt  Edith  Hilliard.’  Put  it  in.  And  mind 
you  read  it,  you  miserable  sinner.  If,  when  you  come  back, 
I find  you  haven’t  read  Judges,  Proverbs,  and  St.  Mark  I 
shall  punch  that  fat  head  of  yours — punch  it  hard.  There 
you  go  putting  your  boots  on  top  of  your  shirts  without  wrap- 
ping them  in  brown  paper.  Now,  how  do  you  stand  for 
money  ? Have  you  twenty  pounds  handy  ? ’ ’ 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  Bully  Tranter  became  a different 
man.  Avarice  stood  next  to  indolence  in  his  character.  No 
longer  drawling  or  whimpering,  but  speaking  in  sharp  and 
businesslike  tones  he  demanded : 

“Surely  I ’m  not  expected  to  pay  my  own  expenses?” 

“Have  you  twenty  pounds  handy?”  repeated  Redding. 

“Yes.  But  . . 

“If  it ’s  in  this  room,  shew  me  the  money,  please.”  Tran- 
ter’s tone  had  hardened,  but  so  had  Redding’s.  The  clergy- 
man’s son  demolished  his  companion’s  new-found  courage  by 
one  scorching  glance.  “You  forget,  Mr.  Tranter,”  he  added, 
“that  you  have  not  merely  helped  to  blast  Mr.  Coggin’s 
character.  From  his  own  lips  I know  that  you  have  cost  him 
hundreds  of  pounds.  If  you  haggle  . . . well,  my  terms  will 
be  altered.  Shew  me  the  money.” 

Bully  Tranter  broke  down  completely  and  began  crying  like 
a greedy  little  boy  suddenly  deprived  of  a plateful  of  jam  tarts. 
With  his  great  sleeve  he  thrice  tried  to  wipe  wet  tears  off  the 
painted  lid  of  a little  money-box  which  he  drew  from  some 
childish  hiding-place.  The  miser  displayed  much  skill  in  so 
extracting  twenty  sovereigns  as  not  to  shew  the  further  ex- 
tent of  his  hoard. 

Young  Redding  had  spent  so  much  of  his  life  on  shipboard, 


82 


THE  HARE 


in  railway  trains  and  coaches,  in  hotels  and  inns,  that  he  was  a 
sophisticated  traveler,  and  he  almost  weaned  Alfred  Tranter 
from  despair  by  his  natty  little  tricks  for  saving  room  in  a 
portmanteau.  While  the  packing  went  on,  Redding  carefully 
repeated  his  instructions,  making  Tranter  repeat  them  until 
he  knew  the  whole  series  by  heart,  like  a lesson.  It  soon  be- 
came plain  that  Mrs.  Hilliard’s  nephew  was  not  such  a fool 
as  it  suited  him  to  appear.  Seizing  upon  a hint  from  Red- 
ding that,  in  certain  eventualities,  Rambury  might  have  to 
refund  the  twenty  pounds,  Bully  Tranter  turned  instantly 
into  an  ardent  champion  of  Coggin  and  shewed  tactful  cun- 
ning in  his  suggestions  for  routing  Rambury. 

Edward  Redding  felt  equally  pleased  with  his  progress  and 
disgusted  with  Tranter.  He"  divined  that  the  contemptible 
creature  would  swing  right  round  again  to  Rambury ’s  side  if 
by  doing  so  he  could  bury  a few  more  sovereigns  in  his  money- 
box. This  thought  made  Redding  decide  that  Tranter  must 
not  be  allowed  to  get  into  communication  with  any  outside 
person  before  leaving  Bulford  next  morning. 

‘ ‘ What  are  you  thinking  about  ?”  asked  Bully  Tranter 
timorously. 

“ About  you”  Redding  answered.  “Take  notice.  Unless 
your  aunt  is  with  you,  you  are  not  to  set  foot  outside  this  house 
till  I call  in  the  morning  to  take  you  to  the  train.  Now  I 
must  be  off.” 

As  Edward,  twenty  minutes  later,  closed  the  garden  gate 
behind  him,  he  felt  much  more  than  satisfied;  for  Mrs.  Hil- 
liard had  not  only  undertaken  to  keep  Alfred  under  her  eye, 
but  had  cheerfully  given  her  audacious  visitor  an  almost  in- 
credible promise. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


HARRY  COGGIN  happened  to  be  filling  a pail  at  the 
pump  just  as  Edward  Redding,  who  had  climbed 
stealthily  up  the  orchard,  shewed  his  head  over 

the  fence. 

“It  is  only  four  o’clock,”  said  Coggin,  greatly  surprised. 
“Thanks  for  the  warm  and  exuberant  welcome,”  retorted 
the  guest.  “I’ll  explain  bye-and-bye.  First  of  all,  you 
might  help  me  with  these  parcels.” 

One  of  the  parcels  was  heavy,  and  Coggin  knew,  by  the 
gurgle  which  came  from  it  as  he  swung  it  over  the  fence,  that 
there  was  a bottle  of  wine  inside.  It  grieved  him  a little  that 
his  visitor  should  so  soon  requite  his  hospitality  of  the  night 
before ; but  he  said  nothing. 

In  the  spotless  kitchen,  the  springs  of  Edward’s  impudence 
suddenly  ran  dry.  The  sentences  which  he  had  been  rehears- 
ing on  the  way  home,  fled  from  his  brain.  All  he  could  do  was 
to  blurt  out,  with  burning  cheeks : 

“Slogger,  I ’ve  invited  Mrs.  Hilliard  and  her  nephew  to 
dinner  this  evening.  And  they ’ve  accepted.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  to  me?” 

For  a moment,  but  for  no  longer,  Coggin  shewed  that  he  was 
hurt.  He  was  accustomed,  however,  to  disappointments  and 
to  thrustings-aside ; so  he  recovered  himself  quietly  and  an- 
swered : 

“I  had  arranged  our  dinner;  but  of  course  I shall  not 
mind  dining  alone.  Mrs.  Hilliard  was  a great  friend  of  Mr. 
Redding’s,  I know.  It  is  only  natural  you  should  wish  to 
shew  her  respect.” 


83 


8-t 


THE  HARE 


“Good  Heavens,”  cried  the  other.  “You  misunderstand 
me.  Surely  you  don ’t  imagine  I could  invite  Mrs.  Hilliard  to 
dine  with  me  at  ‘The  Bulcaster  Arms’?  I ’ve  . . . the  truth 
is  . . . I ’ve  . . . I ’ve  invited  ’em  to  come  and  dine  here. 
Here.  At  half-past  seven.  Here.  Slogger,  I give  you  my 
solemn  word  of  honor  that  I had  reasons,  most  important  rea- 
sons. I ’ll  explain  that  later  on.  Of  course  I never  thought 
she ’d  consent.  I call  it  splendid  of  her.  She ’s  a fine  woman. 
Thinks  the  world  of  you,  Slogger.  Don ’t  look  at  me  like  that. 
You  are  not  going  to  be  hanged.  Hooray,  here ’s  some  soup 
cooking!  We  can  easily  put  some  more  hot  water  in  it.  And 
there ’s  a decent  bit  of  cold  salmon  in  this  packet.  A cold 
boiled  fowl  as  well,  and  some  cream  tarts.  By  Jove,  what ’s 
the  matter?  Mrs.  Hilliard  is  not  young;  but  in  my  opinion 
she  is  still  the  stateliest  and  most  beautiful  woman  in  Bulford. 
You  ought  to  feel  highly  honored.” 

“The  honor  is  too  great,”  replied  Coggin,  after  a pause. 
And,  speaking  in  his  most  precise  manner,  he  added:  “This 
is  not  the  house  and  I am  not  the  host  for  such  a guest. 
Further  . . . have  you  not  forgotten  who  is  her  nephew? 
You  say  he  is  coming  too.” 

“Forgotten?  Not  likely.  Her  nephew  is  Bully  Tranter. 
He  is  the  first  deserter  from  the  enemy  ranks  to  our  side. 
Confound  you,  Slogger,  you  won’t  trust  me  in  the  smallest 
thing.  I ’d  better  tell  you  my  day’s  work,  here  and  now.” 

On  its  mere  contents  and  merits,  Edward  Redding’s  recital 
would  have  been  alarming  to  Harry  Coggin.  He  did  not  re- 
ceive it,  however,  into  a critical  brain ; because  he  had  been 
sustained  for  thirteen  years  by  his  supra-rational  faith  in  the 
Reddings,  father  and  son,  as  God’s  instruments.  More.  In 
persuading  so  proud  and  dainty  a lady  as  Mrs.  Hilliard  to 
come  and  dine  familiarly  with  a marine-store  dealer’s  dis- 
credited son  in  a superannuated  Dissenting  Chapel,  Edward 


THE  DELIVERER 


85 


Redding  had  given  proofs  of  such  astounding  boldness  and 
power  that  there  was  more  than  a faint  hope  of  his  hurling 
even  the  formidable  Rambury  from  his  pedestal.  So  Harry 
simply  surrendered  himself  to  his  champion's  leadership,  only 
stipulating  that  Redding  should  formally  take  the  blame  for 
the  shortcomings  of  Coggin’s  home  and  table. 

Disturbed  only  thrice  by  customers,  who  were  all  three  easily 
pleased,  the  two  young  men  gave  themselves  up  to  the  honor- 
ing of  Mrs.  Hilliard.  Harry  claimed  full  control  in  the  kitchen, 
while  Edward  Redding  obtained  leave  to  borrow  whatever  he 
liked  from  the  stock-in-trade  for  the  dignifying  of  the  table. 
He  availed  himself  of  his  opportunity  to  the  utmost.  A few 
months  before,  Coggin  had  bought,  from  a nobleman’s  house 
in  the  country,  the  remains  of  a magnificent  Crown  Derby 
dinner  and  dessert  service.  By  breakages  this  had  come  down 
to  less  than  one-third  its  original  number  of  pieces ; but  there 
were  still  more  than  enough  plates  and  dishes  for  a dinner 
party  of  only  four  persons.  Redding  was  equally  fortunate 
in  discovering  a sufficiency  of  fine  old  cut  glass,  once  the  prop- 
erty of  Lady  Creeve.  As  for  epergnes  and  candelabra,  the 
choice  was  embarrassing.  Although  Edward  would  have 
hated  house-work  as  such,  and  would  probably  have  smashed, 
through  sheer  carelessness,  any  common  crockery  which  he 
might  have  been  told  to  wash  and  dry,  he  loved  the  handling 
of  rare  china  and  old  glass ; and  therefore  he  succeeded  in  pol- 
ishing his  finds  to  a brilliancy  which  Coggin  himself  had  never 
dreamed  of. 

Mrs.  Hilliard  was  even  better  than  her  wrord.  She  arrived, 
not  by  stealth  but  in  a carriage  drawn  by  two  high-stepping 
roans.  To  Edward,  who  met  her  at  the  door,  she  said  gaily: 

“You  thought  I would  change  my  mind?  Not  a bit  of  it. 
I am  quite  excited,  after  all  you  told  me  this  morning.  And 
think,  Teddie  ...  I don’t  mind  you  knowing  that  I am  over 
fifty;  yet  I have  never  set  foot  in  a chapel  before.” 


86 


THE  HARE 


To  Harry,  who  awaited  her  modestly  in  the  vestibule,  the 
lady  did  not  extend  her  hand,  and  perhaps  there  was  the 
faintest  tinge  of  condescension  in  her  manner  as  she  said : 

“Mr.  Coggin,  I am  truly  pleased  to  see  you  again.  Mr.  Red- 
ding has  told  me  of  the  wrong  which  has  been  done  you.  I am 
persuaded  that  my  nephew,  Mr.  Tranter,  was  drawn  by  other 
persons  into  this  discreditable  affair,  and  I trust  you  will  re- 
gard our  visit  this  evening  as  signifying  that  we  dissociate 
ourselves  entirely  from  such  dastardly  proceedings.  I re- 
member with  gratitude  your  honorable  behavior  after  the  death 
of  my  dear  husband,  and  I trust  you  may  soon  be  enjoying  the 
respect  and  success  you  deserve. 9 9 

“Amen,”  murmured  Teddie  Redding.  The  others  looked 
shocked,  and  he  knew  he  ought  not  to  have  said  it;  but  the 
word  broke  the  ice.  How  could  Mrs.  Hilliard  maintain  her 
intended  aloofness  in  the  presence  of  this  mercurial  young 
man  ? As  the  little  procession  moved  along  the  chapel  Teddie, 
from  the  force  of  habit  and  without  meaning  to  be  funny, 
performed  one  comical  trick  after  another.  On  passing  a piano- 
stool  he  smacked  the  round  leather  seat  in  such  a way  as  to 
send  it  spinning  upward  on  its  bright  spiral  gear.  He  patted 
a stuffed  fox  on  the  head,  and  chucked  under  the  chin  a 
prudish-looking  white  marble  bust  representing  Modesty. 

The  dining-room,  fragrant  with  masses  of  white  lilac,  made 
Mrs.  Hilliard  clap  her  hands.  Happily  she  did  not  examine 
the  decorations  of  the  chimney-piece,  w7hich  included  a chipped 
Worcester  vase  removed  by  Coggin  from  her  own  old 
house,  Glebe  Lodge.  Nor  did  she  know  that  her  lips  had  often 
touched,  at  Lady  Creeve’s,  the  very  glass  into  which  Redding 
poured  her  Chateau  Suduiraut. 

The  dinner  which  Coggin  had  planned  earlier  in  the  day 
was  to  have  consisted  simply  of  a marmite  printaniere,  four 
lean  cutlets,  with  sprigs  of  cauliflower  steamed  and  then 
fried  in  butter,  a piece  of  cheese,  and  a little  jar  of  pre- 


THE  DELIVERER 


87 


served  fruits  from  China.  Teddie’s  cold  salmon  and  the  roast 
fowl  and  the  cream  tarts  extended  the  pleasant  supper  into  an 
elaborate  dinner;  for  Coggin  carefully  jointed  the  fowl  and 
worked  it  up  into  a salmis  according  to  a recipe  he  had  often 
admired  in  an  old  French  book. 

“Don’t  expect  to  get  Sautemes  like  this  in  Boulogne,  Mr. 
Tranter,”  said  Redding,  dwelling  fondly  over  the  Chateau 
Suduiraut  from  Sir  Peter  Luxon’s  renowned  cellar.  And 
turning  to  Mrs.  Hilliard,  he  added:  “ Madam,  pardon  me  if 
I appear  gluttonous  with  my  fish.  It  is  ages  since  I tasted  a 
Deme  salmon.” 

To  be  precise,  the  omnivorous  young  man  had  consumed,  a 
very  large  piece  of  Deme  salmon  only  forty-nine  hours  before, 
in  the  company  of  Puffer  Batwood.  Yet  he  was  not  deliber- 
ately telling  an  untruth.  His  meal  with  Batwood  already 
seemed  years  ago. 

The  banquet  ran  its  course.  Bully  Tranter,  in  response  to  a 
dry  cough  from  his  aunt,  turned  to  Coggin  at  the  very  be- 
ginning of  the  meal  and  sheepishly  recited  the  agreed  words : 
“Mr.  Coggin,  I am  very  sorry,  and  I will  make  the  best  amends 
in  my  power.  ’ 9 Redding  bridged  over  all  the  awkward  pauses 
and  gave  the  host  droll  help  in  bringing  the  cutlets  and  the 
salmis  from  the  kitchen.  He  took  pains,  however,  to  safeguard 
the  lady’s  dignity  and  to  avoid  familiarity.  Mrs.  Hilliard  was 
not  a prude ; but  to  be  a Bulford  grande  dame  in  1864  involved 
a certain  haughtiness,  and  Teddie  did  not  for  a moment  fail 
to  recognize  the  extraordinary  broad-mindedness  and  large- 
heartedness of  his  stately  guest  in  thus  sitting  down  at  the 
table  of  an  old-clo’  man’s  son  in  reparation  for  the  wrong  her 
nephew  had  wrought.  Nor  would  the  lady  herself  have  tol- 
erated any  misunderstanding.  There  was  a golden  curb  on 
her  silvern  laugh.  She  was  at  pains  to  speak  of  Redding  as 
“Mr.  Edward,”  and  of  the  bearded  Alfred  as  “my  nephew, 
Mr.  Tranter.” 


88 


THE  HARE 


Although  Coggin  was  duly  conscious  of  this  slight  aloofness 
he  did  not  resent  it.  He  had  never  been  one  of  those  touchy 
upstarts  who  nurse  bitterness  against  their  social  superiors  on 
account  of  the  very  little  which  is  withheld,  rather  than  grati- 
tude for  the  very  much  which  is  given.  Indeed,  he  would 
have  felt  himself  in  a false  and  uncomfortable  position  if  his 
visitors  had  sought  to  gloss  over  every  inch  of  the  social  dif- 
ference which  undoubtedly  existed.  Yet,  while  exhibiting 
proper  respect  and  deference,  Hary  Coggin  kept  himself  free 
from  the  cringing  manner  which  had  so  greatly  annoyed  the 
Reddings  in  the  old  days.  At  the  very  outset  Mrs.  Hilliard 
observed  the  exquisite  cleanliness  of  the  young  man’s  toil- 
roughened  hands,  the  clearness  of  his  skin,  the  brightness  of 
his  eyes,  the  neatness  of  his  unfashionable  clothes.  Nor  could 
she  help  marveling  at  the  breadth  of  his  knowledge.  When 
Edward  Redding,  for  example,  could  not  remember  the  name 
of  a Spanish  cathedral  with  a remarkably  wide  vaulted  nave, 
Coggin  instantly  said  44Gerona”;  and  when  Mrs.  Hilliard 
failed  to  recollect  the  author  of  a new  novel  called  4 4 Emilia 
in  England,”  which  was  just  then  being  discussed  in  Bulford, 
he  modestly  reminded  her  that  it  was  by  a Mr.  George  Mere- 
dith. He  was  also  able  to  say  which  museums  and  picture- 
galleries  contained  certain  statues  and  paintings  mentioned  by 
Redding. 

4 4 You  must  be  quite  a traveler,  Mr.  Coggin,”  said  Mrs. 
Hilliard. 

4 4 On  the  contrary,  ma’am,”  Coggin  answered.  44 1 have 
never  spent  a night  out  of  Bulford.  ’ ’ 

So  completely  did  the  lady  succumb  to  the  freshness  of  her 
surroundings  and  to  the  excellence  of  the  wines  and  meats, 
that  when  Edward  Redding  opened  the  bottle  of  Perrier- 
Jouet,  which  was  part  of  his  own  contribution  to  the  feast, 
she  exclaimed  unguardedly:  4 4 What  on  earth  would  people 


THE  DELIVERER  89 

say  if  they  knew  I was  drinking  Champagne  with  three  young 
gentlemen  ? ’ ’ 

An  awkward  pause  ensued.  In  Bulford’s  vocabulary 
“gentleman”  was  a word  of  precise  meaning  and  august  asso- 
ciations. It  connoted  lineage,  lands,  leisure;  or,  at  the  very 
least,  a blood-relationship  with  some  titled  and  landed  person. 
The  word  flew  gaily  enough  from  Mrs.  Hilliard’s  lips;  but  a 
moment  later,  like  a bird  that  has  dashed  against  a telegraph 
wire,  it  fell  maimed  and  dead  to  earth. 

Teddie  Redding  came  to  the  rescue.  “If  we  are  scandaliz- 
ing this  pious  and  virtuous  town,”  he  said,  “let  us  swallow 
our  wine  and  adjourn  to  Mr.  Coggin’s  library  which  is  lined 
with  some  millions  of  volumes  of  sermons  by  all  the  dullest  and 
most  respectable  divines.  There  is  a piano.  We  have  time 
for  a little  music.” 

Mrs.  Hilliard  not  only  accompanied  the  young  men  to  the 
library,  but  was  even  persuaded  into  performing  on  the  piano- 
forte herself.  She  played  an  artless  and  useless  morceau  de 
salon  called  ‘ 4 The  Sylph  ’s  Farewell, 9 9 trimmed  with  silly  shakes 
and  runs.  When  this  deed  had  been  fully  perpetrated  and  the 
applause  had  ceased,  the  three  visitors  exclaimed:  “Now,  Mr. 
Coggin.” 

Coggin  felt  troubled.  He  had  entered  the  room  intending 
to  play  Chopin’s  Nocturne  in  F Minor,  but  he  knew  that, 
once  seated  at  the  piano,  he  would  let  himself  go,  and  that  his 
massive  playing  would  make  his  fair  guest’s  gentle  tinklings 
ridiculous.  Suddenly  his  face  brightened,  and  he  asked : 

“May  I play  the  organ  instead?” 

“Do,  please  do,”  cried  the  lady.  And  Redding  added: 

“Mr.  Tranter  and  I will  take  turns  at  the  blowing.” 

Before  Bully  Tranter,  who  had  dined  extremely  well,  could 
begin  bleating  out  a protest,  Coggin  made  haste  to  say:  “No, 
no,  I have  an  arrangement.  ’ ’ 


90 


THE  HARE 


He  went  out  and  set  a little  bell  a-ringing,  somewhere  on 
the  chapel  roof.  Although  the  sound  was  faint,  it  sufficed; 
for,  a minute  later,  the  clumsy  boots  of  two  boys  were  heard 
stamping  on  the  gallery  stairs.  Picking  up  a silver-plated 
candelabrum,  Redding  illuminated  Mrs.  Hilliard’s  way  into 
the  chapel ; and  having  placed  the  lights  on  a table,  behind  a, 
small  candle-screen  of  pleated  silk,  he  seated  himself  beside 
her  on  an  Empire  settee.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Tranter  had  slipped 
back  into  the  dining-room,  to  make  apologies  to  a neglected 
decanter  of  port  and  to  atone  for  Mr.  Redding’s  indifference  to 
its  claims. 

Coggin  played  softly.  Always  considerate  of  others,  he 
remembered  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  held  back  his  thun- 
derbolts. Turning  to  his  favorite  Handel  he  chose  the  best 
of  the  love-music  in  “ Jephtha”  and  the  chorus  “Let  no  rash 
intruder”  from  “Solomon.”  His  auditors,  downstairs  in  the 
darkness,  could  not  have  named  these  compositions;  but  they 
were  none  the  less  subdued  and  softened  by  the  wooing, 
tender  strains.  Indeed,  without  knowing  exactly  how  it  hap- 
pened, Mrs.  Hilliard  found,  wrhen  the  music  ceased,  that  she 
was  holding  Teddie  Redding’s  hand. 

“If  you  really  meant  it.  Slogger,  when  you  told  Mrs.  Hil- 
liard you  had  never  slept  a night  out  of  Bulford,”  said  Red- 
ding, after  the  guests  had  departed,  “I  am  bound  to  say  it ’s 
a shame.  What ’s  more,  I intend  that  you  shall  sleep  out 
of  Bulford  on  Saturday  night.  We  will  find  another  horse  and 
start  early  on  Saturday  morning  on  our  adventures.” 

They  were  washing  up.  Until  that  painful  moment  Teddie 
Redding  had  always  believed  that  washing  up  was  a short  and 
easy  job  which  scullery-maids  could  accomplish  in  five  or  ten 
minutes. 

Coggin  did  not  reply  immediately.  Having  settled  into  a 
groove,  he  was  dismayed  at  the  thought  of  sleeping  in  a strange 


THE  DELIVERER 


91 


bed.  Yet  he  had  fallen  so  completely  under  the  mastery  of 
his  astounding  young  visitor  that  he  did  not  presume  to  re- 
fuse. He  merely  asked:  “How  can  I leave  this  place  for  the 
whole  of  Saturday  ? It  is  my  busiest  day.  ’ ’ 

“We  shall  put  up  a notice,  ‘Closed  for  Stocktaking,’  ” said 
Redding.  “It  will  be  quite  truthful,  because  we  shall  take 
some  of  the  stock  with  us.  For  example,  we  shall  take  an- 
other bottle  of  that  most  praiseworthy  Sauternes.  ’ ’ 


CHAPTER  IX 


FORTY  miles  due  south  of  Bulford,  the  country  rises  so 
steeply  that  the  bigger  hills  are  usually  called  moun- 
tains. Waterfalls  brawl  in  lonely  glens.  Rough 
roads  climb  between  walls  of  loose  stones  up  to  bleak  villages 
and  then  wind  down  again  towards  cosy  market-towns  in  the 
fat  valleys. 

Into  the  tiny  capital  of  this  little  Switzerland,  Edward  Red- 
ding and  Harry  Coggin  trotted  thankfully  on  the  Saturday 
afternoon.  ' Redding  had  chosen  the  route  after  learning  that 
Coggin  had  never  set  foot  on  any  height  more  considerable  than 
Skilbury  Beacon ; and  he  had  found  keen  pleasure  in  observing 
the  impression  which  the  wild  and  airy  wastes  made  upon  his 
humble  friend.  Their  mid-day  meal  of  bread  and  cold  meat 
and  cheese  had  been  eaten  on  the  heathery  marge  of  a tumbling 
brook,  with  not  a house  in  sight. 

After  handing  over  the  horses  to  an  admiring  ostler  and 
bespeaking  rooms  and  a dinner,  the  two  young  men  fared  forth 
on  foot  to  visit  the  ruins  of  a castle  on  a rock  overhanging 
the  swift,  clean  river.  It  turned  out  that  the  battered  walls 
and  crumbling  tower  had  no  antiquarian  importance ; but  the 
spot  was  pleasant  and  breezy,  so  they  threw  themselves  down 
on  the  short  grass  and  lay  gazing  up  into  the  pure  blue  sky. 

4 4 England  is  a beautiful  country/’  said  Redding. 

“It  is  indeed,”  agreed  Coggin.  “This  is  what  I have  seen 
in  pictures.  But  pictures  gave  me  no  hint  of  this  quiet  or 
of  this  air.  Bulford  and  my  own  country  seem  a thousand 
miles  away.” 

They  lay  on  their  backs  for  about  ten  minutes  without  ex- 

92 


THE  DELIVERER  93 

changing  further  words.  Then  Redding  half  raised  himself 
and  said,  leaning  upon  one  elbow : 

“Coggin,  I am  going  to  speak  to  you  very  seriously  and  I 
am  going  to  make  a strange  proposal.  Do  you  promise  not  to 
be  hurt?  You  do.  Very  well. 

“ Harry  Coggin,  I expect  to  receive  on  Monday  a telegram 
from  Bully  Tranter  saying  that  Venn-Venning  has  signed 
a confession.  You  wondered  why  I did  not  join  you  again 
yesterday  morning  for  another  frost-bite  in  your  ice-cold 
swimming-bath.  I was  n’t  between  the  blankets.  I was  writ- 
ing hard.  Bully  Tranter  took  with  him  three  letters  from  me 
to  persons  in  Boulogne  and  a sheet  of  exact  directions  for  his 
own  use.  I firmly  believe  he  will  succeed.  If  he  doesn’t,  we 
shall  find  some  other  means.  In  any  event,  I shall  keep  my 
promise  of  marching  you  out  of  Bulford  with  all  flags  flying. 
But  now  comes  the  rub.  When  you ’ve  done  with  Bulford, 
done  with  furniture-broking,  done  with  your  old  chapel,  what 
next?  There  shall  be  plenty  of  money — your  own  money — in 
your  pocket;  but  what  then?” 

Coggin  had  turned  over  on  his  side  to  hear  better.  He  sat 
up  respectfully  but  said  nothing. 

“ Naturally,”  Redding  went  on,  “you  will  want  to  devote 
yourself  entirely  to  music  and  to  live  by  it,  as  I live  by  my 
brush  and  my  pencil.  But  I see  a difficulty.  Along  with  the 
difficulty,  I see  a solution.  ’ ’ 

Redding  had  hardly  mentioned  a solution  before  he  ap- 
peared to  be  dissatisfied  with  it.  Jumping  to  his  feet  he  paced 
quickly  up  and  down  the  short  enclosure  of  the  ruins.  Coggin 
also  rose  up. 

“Yesterday,”  said  Redding  suddenly,  “you  let  me  skim 
through  your  compositions,  both  the  printed  albums  and  the 
manuscripts.  I am  not  much  of  a musician ; but  of  one  point  I 
am  sure.  In  each  composition  I found  the  same  fatal  defect ; 
and  in  each  case  the  defect  was  on  the  first  page.” 


94 


THE  HARE 


“You  mean,”  Coggin  answered  mildly,  “that  my  themes, 
my  subjects,  my  melodies  are  not  immediately  striking  or 
pleasing  to  the  ordinary  ear.  I admit  it.  What  people  call 
tunes  do  not  appeal  to  me.  In  nearly  all  my  compositions  the 
interest  is  supposed  to  deepen  with  every  bar,  and  the  full  out- 
lines of  the  melody  are  only  gradually  revealed.  All  popular 
composers  can  pen  an  attractive  first  page.  Then  they  fall 
away  into  mere  variations.” 

“I ’m  not  clever  enough  to  know  anything  about  that,” 
said  Redding.  ‘ 4 Perhaps  I ’d  better  be  blunt.  What  is  wrong 
on  your  first  page  is  not  the  music,  the  theme,  the  how-do- 
you-call-it.  Slogger,  don’t  be  hurt.  What ’s  wrong  is  your 
name — the  name  Henry  Coggin.  Mark  me.  I don’t  say  it 
isn’t  every  bit  as  good  a name  as  Edward  Redding.  But  it 
won’t  do.  You  might  have  a dream,  as  I ’ve  heard  that  St. 
Dunstan  had  one — a dream  of  the  very  melodies  and  harmonies 
they  sing  in  Heaven  itself — but  if  you  woke  up  and  jotted  it 
down  and  signed  it  ‘Coggin’  nobody  would  buy  a copy.” 

“It  is  the  only  name  I have,”  replied  Coggin  uneasily. 

“Then  get  another.  Tintoretto,  Leonardo  da  Yinci,  Wolf- 
gang Amadeus  Mozart,  Michael  Angelo,  Palestrina,  Pergolesi, 
Raphael,  Rembrandt,  Gainsborough,  Murillo,  Velasquez  . . . 
do  you  think  these  painters  and  composers  would  appeal  to  us 
as  much  if  they  were  named  Blobbs  and  Dobbs  and  Gobbs  and 
Hobbs  and  Nobbs?  No.  Coggin  won’t  do.  Surely  you  have 
had  a doubt  about  it  before  now?” 

“Before  I published  my  music,”  Coggin  answered,  “I  hesi- 
tated whether  to  use  my  mother’s  maiden  name  of  Croxon.” 

“Croxon  isn’t  bad,”  said  Redding.  “But,  if  you  make  a 
change  at  all,  be  bold.  I should  rule  all  English  names  right 
out.  We  English  have  the  conceited  idea  that  we  are  an 
imperial  race  and  that  we  demean  ourselves  by  practicing  what 
we  regard  as  the  more  effeminate  arts.  We  expect  France, 
Italy,  and  Germany  to  send  us  our  chefs  and  milliners  and 


THE  DELIVERER 


95 


dancing-masters  and  musicians.  What ’s  in  a name  ? A great 
deal  when  the  name  rings  foreign.  There ’s  talk  of  knighting 
Julius  Benedict,  the  Wiirtemberger,  and  Michael  Costa,  the 
Spaniard ; hut  Balfe,  a man  of  far  more  originality  will  proba- 
bly remain  a Mister.  Now  then,  Slogger,  which  is  it  going  to 
vbe — Italian,  French,  or  German?” 

“It  would  certainly  not  be  French  and  certainly  not 
Italian,”  retorted  Coggin,  with  unusual  warmth. 

“Well,  well,  don’t  look  fierce  about  it.  There ’s  plenty  of 
time  to  decide.” 

Coggin  was  glad  to  have  the  debate  adjourned.  While  he 
knew  that  his  name  was  ugly  and  grotesque,  he  had  gradually 
come  to  take  a1  certain  pride  in  it.  The  name  was  boldly  dis- 
played over  the  door  of  the  chapel,  it  was  neatly  written  in 
white  letters  on  his  carts,  and  it  was  tastefully  engraved  on  his 
bill-heads.  None  the  less  he  saw  that  there  was  reason  in  his 
protector’s  proposals. 

When  they  had  left  the  ruins  a quarter  of  a mile  behind 
them  Ed,ward  Redding  burst  out : 

‘ ‘ Then  you  ’re  to  turn  German.  How  much  German  do  you 
know,  Slogger?” 

‘ ‘ I can ’t  speak  it,  ’ ’ replied  the  composer.  ‘ ‘ I read  it  fairly 
well.  The  night  before  you  came  I finished  ‘ Miss  Sarah  Samp- 
son.’ ” 

“Miss  who?” 

“ ‘Miss  Sarah  Sampson,’  You  know,  it  was  Lessing’s  first 
successful  tragedy.” 

“The  deuce  it  was!  With  a title  like  that  I should  have 
thought  it  was  a screaming,  naughty  farce.  Never  mind. 
You  are  going  to  turn  German.  You  must  grow  a beard,  and 
wear  spectacles  and  rumple  your  hair,  and  drink  ever  so  much 
more  beer.  And  look  here,  Herr  Coggenheim,  you  must  give 
up  being  so  confoundedly  dean.  Who ’s  going  to  believe 
you  ’re  from  Hanover  or  Saxony  so  long  as  you  begin  the 


96 


THE  HARE 


day  with  a plunge  into  33  Fahrenheit  ? Ach  Himmel ! Don- 
ner  und  blitzen!  Mein  Herr  Gott!” 

Coggin  was  spared  further  chaff:  for  a little  girl  from  the 
inn  came  running  towards  them  with  a message  that  the  trout 
were  ready  and  that  the  leg  of  lamb  would  be  overdone. 

The  more  Edward  Redding  talked  of  his  latest  proposal  the 
better  he  liked  it.  Even  if  he  had  stopped  to  think  before 
talking,  it  would  not  have  occurred  to  him  that  this  invita- 
tion to  renounce  his  nationality  might  have  pained  or  even  in- 
sulted Harry  Coggin.  The  truth  was  that  Edward  Redding, 
while  scolding  other  people  for  treating  Coggin  as  an  out- 
sider, still  had  moments  of  condescension  towards  his  humbly- 
born  companion.  It  would  have  been  unthinkable  to  suggest 
that  Sir  George  Batwood  or  even  Bully  Tranter  should  cease 
to  be  an  Englishman;  but  Henry  Coggin  moved  on  another 
plane.  Further,  Edward  Redding,  like  many  other  young 
men  of  his  time,  lacked  patriotism.  He  was  proud  of  his 
English  blood  in  the  sense  that  he  regarded  all  other  races 
as  inferior,  but  otherwise  the  sense  of  nationality  was  lack- 
ing ; partly  because  he  thought  he  shared  the  Liberal  opinions 
of  certain  amiable  doctrinaires  and  partly  because  frontiers 
and  diversities  of  laws  and  governments  had  generally  meant 
bother  during  his  years  of  foreign  travel.  It  would  have  hurt 
his  dignity  exceedingly  if  anybody  had  suggested  that  he  or 
his  social  equals  should  cease  to  be  English ; but  he  perceived 
nothing  intrinsically  shocking  in  apostasy  from  one’s  race  and 
country. 

Happily  for  their  friendship,  Coggin  was  equally  deficient  in 
the  sense  of  nationality.  No  clarion  call  had  ever  warmed 
him  into  pride  of  his  English  birthright.  He  had  known  only 
such  faint  reminders  as  the  Queen’s  head  on  stamps;  the  let- 
ters “V.R.”  here  and  there:  some  exciting  weeks  during  the 
Crimean  War  and  the  Indian  Mutiny;  a little  flag-flying  and 


THE  DELIVERER 


97 


cannon-firing  on  royal  birthdays ; certain  taxes ; a captured  gun 
from  Sebastopol  in  Guildhall  Square;  a tattered  regimental 
banner  in  the  south  aisle  of  St.  Michael's;  and  an  occasional 
patriotic  harangue.  So  Coggin  listened  to  Mr.  Redding  with 
concern  but  without  resentment. 

On  the  Sunday  morning,  after  a very  early  swim  and  a 
very  ample  meal,  the  travelers  turned  their  horses'  heads  home- 
wards. Their  route,  however,  did  not  retrace  the  steps  of  the 
day  before.  Edward  Redding  had  studied  his  map  to  good  pur- 
pose. Keeping  alongside  the  blithe  and  friendly  river  they 
cantered  clear  of  the  brooding  mountains  and  rode  down 
through  rich  pastures  into  a large  village,  just  as  the  bells 
were  calling  the  country  folk  to  prayer. 

4 4 This  way,"  whispered  Redding,  after  they  had  left  their 
horses  at  an  inn  close  to  the  church  door.  4 4 Do  as  I tell  you." 

He  had  seen  a man  in  rusty  black,  with  a roll  of  music  under 
his  arm,  worming  himself  up  a spiral  staircase.  They  followed 
until,  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  they  brushed  against  an  organ 
of  fair  size.  Six  or  seven  boys  and  men  had  preceded  the 
organist  and"  were  lounging  about. 

4 4 Sir,  I am  taking  a great  liberty,"  said  Redding  in  his 
most  winning  style.  4 4 My  friend  here  is  a distinguished  or- 
ganist and  composer.  He  would  have  preferred  to  kneel  in 
this  church  to-day  as  a simple  worshipper ; but,  if  he  can  re- 
lieve you,  he  is  at  your  service." 

The  jaded-looking  schoolmaster  jumped  at  the  offer.  He 
explained  that  the  psalms  were  said,  not  chanted,  and  that 
there  would  be  no  singing  save  4 4 Jackson  in  F,"  and  two 
hymns. 

Coggin  wriggled  into  his  place  on  the  bench,  and  while  the 
parishioners  assembled  below  he  took  stock  of  the  instrument. 
Although  the  hautboy  was  dreadful  the  other  stops  were  in 
tune,  and  no  mechanical  defects  appeared.  He  rounded  off 
his  prelude  softly.  Even  Jackson  in  F found  him  quite 


98 


THE  HARE 


cool,  and  lie  did  not  try  to  get  more  out  of  that  well-worn 
composition  than  there  was  in  it.  But  when  the  service  was 
over  and  the  people  were  beginning  to  loiter  out  of  the  church, 
Harry  let  himself  go.  The  windows  rattled,  every  old  slab 
in  the  worn  pavements  became  a living  stone,  the  rafters 
hummed  and  echoed.  If  Redding  had  not  leapt  to  his  aid, 
the  astonished  organ-blower  would  have  failed  to  keep  the  bel- 
lows full.  The  congregation  streamed  back  into  the  church 
and  the  clergyman  stood  stupefied  at  the  vestry  door. 

As  the  organ-blower,  after  spitting  for  luck  upon  the  five- 
shilling  piece  which  Redding  gave  him,  was  busy  polishing  the 
coin  on  his  sleeve,  the  schoolmaster  poured  out  thanks  and 
begged  for  the  strange  musician’s  name. 

“Yes.  I also  would  like  to  have  your  name,”  said  a 
voice  behind  the  organ.  The  vicar  had  climbed  the  spiral 
stairs. 

Coggin  was  about  to  speak  when  Redding  stepped  forward. 
Coggin’s  heart  stood  still.  Surely,  in  a church,  Mr.  Redding 
would  not  dare  to  introduce  him  by  a German  name  ? 

* ‘ Pardon  our  making  a mystery,  sir,  and  pray  do  not  think 
us  disobliging,”  said  Teddie  in  his  magnificent  Spanish  hidalgo 
manner.  “For  this  morning,  my  friend  has  no  name;  but  he 
is  none  the  less  your  respectful  and  most  obedient  servant.” 

The  idea  of  a wandering  musician  without  a name  tickled 
Redding  mightily.  Over  the  cold  beef  at  the  inn  he  persist- 
ently addressed  Coggin  in  the  third  person.  Would  the 
Nameless  One  pass  the  mustard?  What  did  the  Unknown 
think  of  the  cheese?  But  at  last  he  began  calling  Harry 
“the  Herr”  which  he  insisted  on  pronouncing  as  “the  Hare”; 
and  when  they  regained  the  chapel,  happy  and  weary,  he  said : 

“To-morrow  will  be  a great  day.  The  Hare  had  better 
snuggle  into  his  form  at  once.” 


CHAPTER  X 


BULLY  TRANTER'S  telegram,  which  was  delivered  at 
half -past  eight  on  the  Monday  morning,  ran : 

V has  willingly  signed  document  completely  exonerating 
C,  but  document  also  discloses  circumstances  extenuating  hoax 
perpetrated  by  V on  C . Returning  Bid  ford  Monday  evening. 

“This  is  glorious,"  cried  Teddie.  “Anybody  can  see  that 
Bully  Tranter  hasn't  worded  this  telegram  himself.  Venn- 
Venning  drew  it  up — damn  his  polysyllables!  I can  see  it  all. 
Though  he 's  frightened  to  death,  he 's  as  artful  as  monkeys. 
A hoax,  by  Jove!  But  to-night  we  shall  know  whether  we 
can  catch  out  Rambury  or  not. ' ' 

“I  am  cleared,"  said  Coggin. 

He  turned  away  to  hide  his  emotion.  Redding  strode  up 
to  him  and  wrung  his  friend's  hand.  “Of  course  you're 
cleared,"  he  almost  shouted.  “Now  to  work,  to  work! 
There 's  no  time  to  waste.  Within  nine  days  I want  to  have 
you  out  of  England  and  on  your  way  to  Deutschland.  We 've 
got  to  sell  this  furniture-broking  business,  either  piecemeal  or 
as  a going  concern.  That  means  inventories,  catalogues,  price- 
tickets.  So  to  work ! ’ ' 

‘ 4 Everything  is  ready, ' ' answered  Coggin  quietly.  He  pro- 
duced some  books  and  some  foolscap  sheets.  Redding  glanced 
at  them  and  saw  that  the  whole  stock-in-trade  had  been 
minutely  recorded.  Every  picture,  every  piece  of  china,  every 
yard  of  carpet,  every  clock,  every  chair,  every  old  book  was  set 
down,  with  its  cost  price  and  its  estimated  value.  And  un- 
derneath every  object,  from  the  pianofortes  down  to  the  kitchen 

99 


100 


THE  HARE 


chairs,  there  was  a tiny  label  numbered  to  correspond  with  an 
entry  in  the  stock-book.  An  auctioneer  could  have  prepared 
the  whole  collection  for  sale  in  half-an-hour. 

“You  are  wonderful,  Herr  Highovermusikdirektor-Slogger- 
Wogger,”  Teddie  murmured.  “Here ’s  real  German  thor- 
oughness. You  put  us  muddling  procrastinating  English  to 
shame.  So  there ’s  nothing  to  be  done  till  Bully  Tranter  ar- 
rives. Stay ! I ’ll  tell  you  what  to  do.  Begin  sorting  out  the 
books  and  music  and  keepsakes  that  you  ’re  not  going  to  sell. 
Keep  them  down  to  as  small  a heap  as  you  can.  Pack  them 
securely  to  be  stored  till  you  come  back  from  the  Yaterland. 
Meanwhile  I ’m  going  to  parade  the  town.  The  more  I shew 
myself  the  better.  Secrecy  has  served  our  turn  long  enough. 
I shall  be  back  at  six;  and  then  I ’ll  go  and  meet  Bully.” 

“You  will  need  something  to  eat  before  then.” 

“I  shall  need  it  and  I shall  get  it.” 

He  took  his  hat  and  cane  and  stepped  out  into  the  street, 
honestly  intending  to  perambulate  the  main  thoroughfares  of 
Bulford.  But  somehow  his  steps  turned  towards  Hanover 
Grove.  Surely,  he  argued,  Mrs.  Hilliard  ought  to  be  told  at 
once  of  her  nephew ’s  full  and  swift  success. 

After  he  had  broken  the  news  Edward  Redding  found  the 
lady’s  morning-room  so  pleasant  that  he  was  loth  to  go. 
When  he  left  the  house  it  was  only  to  accompany  Mrs.  Hilliard 
into  the  cottages  of  certain  aged  widows  who  lionized  Edward 
exceedingly  for  his  father’s  sake ; and,  after  a charming  though 
rather  too  lady-like  a luncheon,  he  sat  all  the  afternoon  with 
his  queenly  hostess  in  her  rose-garden,  talking  much  of  Cog- 
gin,  less  of  Alfred  Tranter,  and  a little  of  himself. 

The  London  train  steamed  into  the  station  half-an-hour  late. 
At  first  nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  Bully.  The  huge  fellow, 
bursting  with  importance,  wished  to  be  taken  very  seriously ; 
but,  on  catching  sight  of  him,  Redding  tugged  him  out  of  the 
compartment  as  if  he  had  been  a mere  mail-bag. 


THE  DELIVERER 


101 


“Hand  me  that  confession,”  he  commanded.  “It  's  in  this 
envelope?  Right.  Now  run  home  to  auntie.  And  don't 
stir  out  till  I send  for  you.” 

Venn- Venning's  apologia — a very,  very  long  screed — was 
too  clever  by  half.  The.  panic-stricken  adventurer  had  hesi- 
tated between  two  lines  of  defense,  and  his  fluent  paragraphs 
redounded  with  inconsistencies.  According  to  the  opening 
pages  he  had  intended  only  to  play  a practical  joke  on  Cog- 
gin,  and  it  was  purely  from  forgetfulness  that  he  had  left 
England  without  confessing  the  prank  and  refunding  the 
money.  In  support  of  this  pretension  he  made  a great  deal  of 
having  said  that  the  forged  Constables  came  from  “his 
uncle's.”  By  this  he  maintained  that  he  had  waggishly  meant 
a certain  pawnbroker  from  whom  he  had  bought  the  canvases 
for  a trifle.  At  this  point,  however,  the  tone  of  the  confes- 
sion changed.  The  very  handwriting  became  less  insolent, 
and  it  could  be  seen  that  the  pen  had  trembled  in  the  culprit's 
hand.  The  last  page  was  a cry  of  despair,  a wail  for  mercy ; 
and  the  closing  words  were,  ‘ ‘ I was  pushed  into  this  by  Albert 
Rambury. ' ' 

While  a messenger  was  on  his  w7ay  to  summon  Bully  Tranter, 
the  tvro  young  men  held  a council  of  wrar.  It  was  decided  that 
Coggin  should  go  into  Demehaven  on  the  morrow  by  the  first 
train,  to  initiate  negotiations  for  the  sale  of  his  lease  and 
stock  and  good-wflll  to  a firm  whose  partners  had  long  wished  to 
establish  a branch  in  Bulford.  Meanwfiiile  Redding  was  to 
launch  a surprise  attack  on  the  enemy,  which  would  involve 
some  novel  and  sprightly  tactics.  He  had  not  finished  explain- 
ing his  bold  plan  when  Tranter  entered  the  chapel. 

The  giant  hulked  in  with  a jaunty,  friendly  air.  He  had 
evidently  come  to  regard  himself  as  an  out-and-out  Cogginite. 
With  exceeding  satisfaction  Edward  Redding  saw  that  the 


102 


THE  HARE 


journey  to  France  and  back  had  done  Mr.  Tranter  a vast 
amount  of  good  in  every  respect. 

A hundred  questions,  of  which  at  least  ninety-five  were  put 
by  Redding,  brought  out  the  story.  It  appeared  that  Venn- 
Yenuing  had  indeed  worded  the  telegram,  and  that  there  had 
been  no  great  difficulty  in  persuading  him  to  write  the  first 
half  of  the  confession. 

“I  sat  beside  him  while  he  was  scribbling  it,”  Tranter  ex- 
plained. “When  Venn-Venning  came  to  the  end  of  the  third 
page — the  bit  about  calling  the  pawnbroker  his  uncle — he  was 
going  to  break  off  and  simply  sign  it.  But  I read  it  over  and 
told  him  it  would  n’t  do.  He  said  that  was  all  he  knew  about 
the  affair,  and  he  refused  to  write  more.” 

‘ ‘ What  happened  ? ’ ’ asked  Redding. 

“I  told  him  he  was  a liar,”  answered  Tranter,  with  im- 
mense pride. 

“Did  he  mind?” 

“Not  a bit.  He  laughed.  Then  I spoke  up  and  told  him 
that  if  he  did  n’t  make  a clean  breast  of  everything,  especially 
about  Rambury,  Slogger  Coggin  would  break  every  bone  in  his 
body  and  wring  his  neck.  I believe  he  thought  Slogger  was  in 
Boulogne,  waiting  outside.  He  ...” 

“To  cut  it  short,  he  wrote  two  more  pages?  Quite  so,” 
said  Redding.  “And  very  useful  pages  they  are.  Mr. 
Tranter,  you  have  done  grandly.  Don’t  spoil  it  by  letting 
slip  a single  syllable  about  your  journey  to  any  one.  Drink 
this  glass  of  wine  with  us.  Then  go  home  and  stay  there  till 
to-morrow  night.  There  are  two  men  in  Bulford,  Mr.  Wood- 
ley  the  solicitor  and  Mr.  Albert  Rambury,  whom  you  must  not 
run  against  till  I have  done  with  them.  Here  you  are.  It  is 
Amontillado,  twice  as  old  as  yourself.  The  toast  is  ‘Slogger 
Coggin.’  Fiat  justitia.  No  heel-taps.  Now  trot  off  home.” 

Dinner  in  the  old  vestry  that  evening  was  a short  meal, 


THE  DELIVERER 


103 


hurriedly  served  and  inattentively  consumed.  Towards  its 
close,  the  host  began  apologizing  for  its  defects. 

“We  are  certainly  eating  a bad  dinner/’  agreed  the  guest. 
“But  to-morrow  we  shall  make  up  for  it.  Now  don’t  oppose 
me.  By  to-night’s  post  I write  to  Sir  George  Batwood,  ex- 
plaining everything  and  begging  him  to  bring  Lady  Batwood 
here  to-morrow  night.  They  will  come  when  they  know  Mrs. 
Hilliard  has  dined  in  this  room.  Of  course  I shall  get  Mrs. 
Hilliard  to  come  to-morrow  night  as  well.  And  understand 
that  this  is  at  my  cost  and  expense.  I shall  engage  a waiter 
from  the  Bulcaster  Arms.  A lobster  mayonnaise  and  a cold 
roast  capon  and  an  exceptional  dessert  shall  be  sent  in ; so  if 
you  can  manage  one  of  your  stunning  soups  and  some  kind  of 
interesting  out-of-the-way  hot  entree,  to  come  between  the  cold 
fish  and  the  cold  fowl,  we  shall  dine  famously.  As  for  the 
wine,  you  shall  provide  it.  You  are  leaving  Bulford  next 
week ; so  why  should  n ’t  we  bring  up  the  best  bottles  ? ’ ’ 

Although  Coggin  quailed,  he  bowed  to  the  generalissimo’s 
will;  and  while  the  letter  to  Sir  George  was  being  written  he 
slipped  out  to  the  butcher’s  in  quest  of  a prime  fillet  of  beef 
for  his  entree.  On  his  return  he  found  that  Redding’s  flying 
pen  had  achieved  three  letters — one  very  long  and  two  very 
short.  The  long  letter  was  for  the  baronet  with  a postscript 
for  Lady  Batwood.  The  other  letters  were  written  on  Cog- 
gin  ’s  business  note-paper.  The  first  ran : 

Mr.  Albert  Rambury. 

Sir, 

Please  come  here  to-morrow,  Tuesday,  evening  at  seven 
precisely  to  see  Mr.  Coggin  and  myself.  No  other  time  and 
place  will  suit  us. 

If  you  do  not  attend,  we  shall  feel  ourselves  free  to  take  a 
certain  course  immediately  and  without  further  notice . 

Your  obedient  servant } 


Edward  Redding. 


104 


THE  HARE 


The  second  letter  was  unsigned.  It  ran : 

Mr.  Samuel  Woodley. 

Sir, 

Please  put  together  all  such  papers  as  I am  entitled  to, 
now  that  1 have  paid  in  full  your  bill  of  costs. 

Also,  please  come  here  to-morrow,  Tuesday,  at  seven  p.m. 
punctually  to  meet  my  friend  Mr.  Edward  Redding  and  my- 
self. No  other  appointment  can  be  offered,  and  it  is  in  your 
own  interest  that  you  shoidd  attend. 

Your  obedient  servant, 


‘ ‘ Sign  the  letter  to  Woodley,”  said  Redding.  “No,  don’t 
copy  it  out  in  your  own  hand.  I have  my  reasons.  Merely 
sign.  Thanks.  I ’ve  just  time  to  catch  the  last  post.” 


CHAPTER  XI 


ON  the  following  morning,  before  ten  o’clock,  Mr. 

Woodley  literally  collided  with  Mr.  Albert  Ram- 
bury  at  the  angle  of  Market  Street  and  St. 
Peter’s  Lane. 

‘ ‘ I was  on  my  way  to  see  yon,  ’ ’ said  Rambury.  And  Wood- 
ley  answered: 

“So  was  I.” 

Although  the  lawyer  was  the  more  flurried  of  the  two,  the 
accountant  could  not  wholly  conceal  his  anxiety.  Turning 
out  of  the  busy  street  into  the  quiet  lane  they  compared  notes. 
At  last  Rambury  said: 

“I  am  for  grasping  the  nettle.  If  we  don’t,  it  will  sting. 
This  Edward  Redding  can  cause  us  a great  deal  of  annoyance. 
He  is  his  father  over  again — always  flying  off  with  some  mad 
idea  of  exposing  a scandal  and  succoring  the  oppressed.  You 
remember,  Woodley,  how  the  father  got  Coggin  on  the  brain? 
He  tilted  at  everything  and  everybody  in  Bulford,  like  a reg- 
ular Don  Quixote ; and  although  he  had  to  suffer  for  it  smartly 
in  the  long  run  and  give  up  the  living,  he  made  it  very  un- 
comfortable for  reasonable  people  while  the  nonsense  lasted. 
This  son  of  his  seems  even  worse ; because  he  is  just  a big  sky- 
larking boy,  with  no  sense  of  responsibility.  They  say  he 
makes  a lot  of  money  as  an  artist,  and  he  has  plenty  of  leisure 
to  meddle  in  other  people’s  business.  I repeat  that  he  can  be 
exceedingly  troublesome.  The  only  way  is  to  stand  up  to 
him  boldly,  at  once.  So  I propose  to  go  round  to  Coggin’s 
chapel  this  minute.  That  will  be  my  answer  to  his  impudent 
message  that  I must  attend  at  seven  to-night  or  not  at  all.’> 

105 


106 


THE  HARE 


“I  ’ll  come  with  you,”  cried  Woodley.  He  had  a second- 
rate  will  and  a third-rate  mind,  and  was  immensely  relieved 
at  the  prospect  of  hiding  himself  behind  this  cool  and  compe- 
tent young  Rambury. 

“You  forget,”  said  the  other.  “You  are  Coggin’s  solicitor, 
not  mine.  If  that  affair  is  to  be  re-opened,  you  are  supposed  to 
be  acting  against  me.  Keep  away.  Indeed,  we  are  most  in- 
discreet in  walking  together  now.  You ’d  better  go  back  to 
your  office.  I ’ll  send  you  a confidential  line  before  noon.  ’ ’ 

Albert  Rambury  stepped  briskly  away.  His  coolness  had 
so  often  enabled  him  to  out-wit  better  and  even  cleverer  men 
that  he  advanced  to  the  fray  with  growing  confidence.  He  de- 
cided to  make  Coggin  and  Redding  shew  their  hand,  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  insisting  politely  on  an  explanation  of 
Redding’s  “extraordinary  letter  just  received.”  Further,  he 
would  suavely  ask  him  what  they  wished  him  to  do.  He  would 
then  demand  time  for  consideration  and  would  out-manceuver 
both  the  hated  Coggin  and  the  intrusive  Redding. 

At  the  chapel  door  Mr.  Rambury  experienced  his  first 
check.  He  found  himself  confronted  by  the  neatly-written 
notice : 

CLOSED  FOR  STOCKTAKING 

Pulls  at  the  bell-rope  and  hammerings  on  the  panels  were  of 
no  avail.  Albert  Rambury  was  not  an  imaginative  man,  but 
for  once  he  scented  an  omen.  He  was  shut  out.  What  if 
Coggin,  the  detestable  upstart  Coggin  should  triumph  after  all  ? 
Throughout  his  intrigues  against  the  rag-and-bone  man’s  son, 
Rambury  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  his  victim  had  no 
effective  allies.  The  Reddings  had  been  so  many  years  out  of 
Bulford  that  they  had  practically  faded  from  his  mind.  Yet, 
like  a thunderbolt  out  of  the  blue,  this  dare-devil,  handsome, 
affable,  well-to-do,  leisured,  damnable,  young  Edward  had 


THE  DELIVERER 


107 


plumped  into  the  middle  of  the  stage,  not  asking  questions  or 
suggesting  discussions,  but  issuing  commands  like  a god. 

Regaining  his  office,  Mr.  Albert  dashed  down  with  an  angry 
quill  some  contemptuous  lines  for  Mr.  Woodley.  He  wrote: 

The  chapel  is  closed.  I deem  it  best  to  be  there  at  seven 
o’clock  and  end  this  nonsense.  You  had  better  come  too. 
Pardon  my  advising , for  your  own  sake , that  you  should  con- 
tent yourself  to-day  with  a diminished  allowance  of  brandy. 

A.  R 

As  seven  o’clock  resounded,  Mr.  Rambury  jerked  at  the 
chapel  bell.  Behind  him  stood  Mr.  Woodley,  panic-stricken 
but  sober.  The  door  was  flung  open  by  an  imposing  person- 
age, who  wore  the  airs  of  an  old-established  family  butler  ad- 
mitting a couple  of  poor  relations.  This  was  Turton,  the  head- 
waiter  of  the  Victoria  Hotel  at  Demehaven,  whom  Coggin  had 
engaged,  on  Redding’s  revised  instructions,  instead  of  a waiter 
from  the  Bulcaster  Arms. 

As  neither  Woodley  nor  Rambury  had  seen  Turton  before, 
they  were  not  only  abashed  but  mystified.  And  their  amaze- 
ment grew  as  they  followed  meekly  in  the  great  man’s  wake. 
The  chapel  had  been  turned  into  a magnificent  salon.  Their 
feet  sank  deeply  in  fine  carpets,  and  their  nostrils  were  filled 
with  the  scents  of  lilac  and  roses.  On  the  many  tables  stood 
bowls  of  flowers,  silver  candlesticks,  statuettes,  vases,  and 
richly-bound  volumes.  But  these  surprises  were  as  nothing 
to  the  shock  which  followed. 

Walking  pompously  ahead,  Turton  paused  outside  the  wide- 
open  door  of  the  old  vestry,  where  the  table  was  already  laid 
for  dinner.  Both  Rambury  and  Woodley  enjoyed  occasional 
access  to  stately  houses ; but  nowhere  had  either  of  them  seen 
so  gorgeous  a combination  of  plate  and  napery,  of  china  and 
glass  and  silver,  of  fruits  and  flowers  and  candles.  As  in  the 


108 


.THE  HARE 


chapel,  lilac  and  roses  were  everywhere.  On  a side-board  stood 
wines  of  jewel-like  colors  in  richly  cut  decanters,  while  the 
necks  of  two  bottles  rose  over  the  brim  of  a massive  Sheffield 
champagne-cooler. 

“Mr.  Rambree  and  Mr.  Woodley,”  repeated  Turton  after 
learning  the  visitors’  names.  “I  will  tell  Mr.  Coggin  and  Mr. 
Redding  at  once.  Pr’aps  you  will  kindly  step  into  the  li-bry.” 
• In  the  library  were  more  pots  of  lilacs,  more  bowls  of  roses, 
more  rich  carpets,  more  little  tables,  more  beeswax  candles  in 
silver  sconces,  more  easy  chairs.  Woodley  was  about  to  ask 
what  it  could  all  mean  when  Coggin  and  Redding  entered  the 
room. 

Albert  Rambury  rose  and  advanced  to  meet  Redding,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand.  Redding,  however,  affected  not  to  see  and 
merely  bowed.  Waving  Rambury  back  into  his  chair  he 
said : 

“As  Mr.  Coggin  and  I have  another  appointment,  you  will 
allow  me  to  get  immediately  to  business.  Mr.  Woodley,  you 
have  acted  as  Mr.  Coggin ’s  legal  adviser.  Mr.  Rambury,  you 
and  Mr.  Coggin  were  once  school-fellows.” 

Rambury  winced ; but  without  giving  him  time  to  interject 
any  protest,  Redding  went  on:  “You  should  therefore  be  suit- 
able persons  to  advise  Mr.  Coggin  in  a matter  affecting  his 
honor  and  welfare. 

‘ ‘ Throughout  many  years,  Mr.  Coggin  has  been  the  victim  of 
almost  incredible  conspiracies  and  intrigues.  No  doubt  you 
have  heard  of  the  wrecking  of  his  concerts — a disgrace  to 
Bulford  and  an  affair  which  fills  every  honest  hearer  with  dis- 
gust. That  was  very  serious,  and  I hope  to  bring  the  guilty 
parties  to  a reckoning ; but  it  is  not  our  main  business  to-night. 

“You  know  that  recently,  in  connection  with  some  forged  oil 
paintings  ascribed  to  Constable,  Mr.  Coggin  has  suffered  cruel 
anxiety,  heavy  legal'  expenses,  grave  personal  discredit,  and 
serious  loss  of  business.  Despite  the  cleverness  of  the  pro- 


THE  DELIVERER  109 

cedure,  we  have  discovered  the  instigator  of  this  dirty  job. 
You  both  know  Mr.  Frederick  Venn-Venning?” 

“Yes,  yes,”  cried  Rambury,  enormously  relieved.  At  the 
word  “instigator’ ’ his  blood  had  run  slow;  but  now  it  flowed 
free  again.  “Venn- Venning,”  he  added,  “is  a blackguard. 
There  is  no  shady  trick  he  wouldn’t  do.  Mr.  Coggin  is  not 
the  only  victim.” 

“No.  And  Venn-Venning  is  not  the  only  blackguard,” 
said  Redding,  swiftly  and  sternly.  “ Venn-Venning ’s  part  in 
this  outrage  was  already  notorious.  I mention  his  name  to- 
night for  one  reason  only.  In  my  hand  I hold  not  only  Venn- 
Venning ’s  confession  but  also  his  incrimination  of  somebody 
else — of  the  dastardly  instigator.  And  this  is  why  I ask  your 
advice.  The  culprit  is  beyond  question,  a cur,  an  unspeakable 
scoundrel.  But  unfortunately  he  is  also  an  old  boy  of  our 
old  school — the  school  which  all  four  of  us  have  attended  at  one 
time  or  another. 

“Three  courses,  and  only  three,  seem  possible.  First,  Mr. 
Coggin  could  proceed  in  the  ancient  fashion.  He  could  come 
up  with  his  enemy  in  some  public  place  and  thrash  him  in  such 
circumstances  of  ignominy  that  the  vile  coward  would  never 
be  able  to  lift  up  his  head  in  Bulford  again.  I see  one  great 
disadvantage  in  this  course.  We  all  remember,  that  when 
we  were  boys,  we  used  to  speak  of  4 Slogger’  Coggin.  I fear 
that  if  once  his  blood  were  up,  Mr.  Coggin  might  not  only 
punish  but  perhaps  kill  his  man.  No  jury,  after  hearing  all 
the  facts,  would  have  him  hanged  for  it;  but  we  don’t  want 
battle  and  murder  and  sudden  death  if  we  can  help  it. 

“Second,  Mr.  Coggin  might,  first  thing  to-morrow  morning, 
set  the  law  in  motion — not  the  civil  law,  for  mere  money  dam- 
ages, but  the  criminal  law,  for  conspiracy  and  for  criminal 
libel.  With  the  evidence  and  documents  wrhich  have  just 
come  into  his  possession,  he  could  irretrievably  ruin  the  vile 
plotter  by  whom  he  has  himself  been  so  nearly  ruined.  He 


110 


THE  HARE 


could  disgrace  him;  beggar  him,  drive  him  out  of  Bulford, 
perhaps  out  of  the  country.  As  a good  citizen,  I feel  this  is 
the  course  Mr.  Coggin  ought  to  take.  The  third  course  . . . 
well,  I hardly  like  to  name  it,  because  it  savors  of  compound- 
ing with  evil.  But  I will  put  it  before  you.  Third,  Mr. 
Coggin  might  consent  neither  to  thrash  the  criminal  nor  to 
fling  him  into  prison.  He  might,  on  condition  of  receiving  the 
most  ample  reparation,  forgive  his  enemy.  I say,  the  most 
ample  reparation:  and  also  the  most  abject  apology.  Mr. 
Rambury,  you  are  reputed  a cool-headed  and  sapient  man.  If 
I have  made  myself  clear,  perhaps  you  will  favor  us  with  your 
valuable  opinion.’ * 

Rambury ’s  face  had  blanched  to  the  whiteness  of  chalk. 
For  this  young  man,  life  held  only  three  terrors — physical  pain, 
prison,  and  penury.  The  thought  of  gaol  was  not  new  to  him, 
because  he  was  always  engaging  in  sharp  practices  where  a 
false  step  might  tumble  him  within  reach  of  the  law.  But 
what  froze  him  with  the  most  sickening  fear  was  Redding’s 
easy-going  forecast  of  a possible  fight  in  which  Slogger,  roused 
to  white-hot  passion,  would  certainly  mutilate  and  probably 
kill  him. 

“ Don’t  answer  in  a hurry,”  said  Edward  Redding  with  a 
scorn  which  he  could  not  conceal.  4 ‘ Take  your  time.  You 
see,  Mr.  Rambury,  this  is  extremely  important.  It  involves 
somebody’s  liberty  and  perhaps  his  life.” 

Albert  Rambury  applied  his  nimble  wits  to  find  a joint  in 
Edward  Redding’s  armor,  but  in  vain.  He  felt  like  a choking, 
drowning  man  clawing  desperately  at  the  polished  side  of 
an  iceberg.  At  last,  however,  he  rallied  himself  and  man- 
aged to  say,  with  something  like  his  usual  arrogance : 

“As  my  opinion  is  asked,  I give  it.  Beware  lest  these 
threats  recoil  on  your  own  heads.  The  law  is  full  of  pitfalls 
and  miss-fires.  You  are  relying  on  what  purports  to  be  a 
confession  by  Venn-Venning.  How  do  you  know  that  he  is 


THE  DELIVERER 


111 


not  lying  to  you  as  he  lied  to  ...  to  Mr.  Coggin?  Pardon 
my  saying  that  the  affair  of  the  concerts  is  susceptible  of  an- 
other and  more  natural  explanation.  As  for  the  pictures — 
well,  Mr.  Coggin  ventured  out  of  his  depth  and  has  had  to 
pay  for  his  experience/ * 

4 ‘ Then  your  advice  is — what?” 

“Not  to  throw  good  money  after  bad.” 

“Money  isn't  everything,”  said  Redding.  “I  11  put  my 
question  in  another  way.  Supposing,  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment, that  we  hold  overwhelming  proofs  of  the  plotter's  guilt. 
Always  remembering  that  he  is  an  old  boy  of  Bulford  Gram- 
mar School,  which  would  you  advise  us  to  do  ? Horse- 
whip him?  Lock  him  up?  Or  forgive  him,  on  stern  con- 
ditions?” 

“It  is  not  my  business,”  snapped  Rambury.  His  manner 
was  as  insolent  as  ever.  But  his  voice  shook,  and  Redding 
knew  that  the  battle  was  half  won. 

“Mr.  Woodley,  as  Mr.  Rambury  refuses  his  opinion,  per- 
haps you  will  give  us  yours,”  asked  Redding,  turning  to  the 
solicitor. 

“No.  I sha'n't ! I won't !”  bawled  Woodley,  jerking  him- 
self out  of  the  deep  arm-chair  and  striding  towards  Redding. 
“We 've  had  enongh  of  this  play-acting.  Say  straight  out 
what  you  mean,  like  a man.  You  mean  that  "Rambury  is  the 
villain  of  the  piece  and  that  I am  his  accomplice.  Then  say 
it.  Say  it  straight  out.  Say  it.” 

“You  have  said  it  for  me,”  replied  Edward  Redding  quietly, 
as  he  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast  and  stared  the  solicitor 
full  in  the  face. 

“I  demand  to  see  what  that  damned  Venn-Venning  says 
about  me,”  Woodley  shouted.  He  sprang  to  the  table  and 
pounced  on  Tranter's  long  envelope:  but  he  was  too  late  by  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  Redding  grabbed  the  document  and  said 
sharply:  “This  paper  is  Mr.  Coggin’s.  By  the  way,  have  you 


112 


THE  HARE 


brought  him  the  other  papers  he  has  asked  for?  No:  don’t 
argue.  Hand  them  over  this  instant.” 

After  delivering  up  the  papers,  Mr.  Woodley  spluttered  out 
a long  and  excited  defense.  He  claimed  great  credit  for  hav- 
ing accepted  Coggin  as  a client.  No  other  first-class  Bulford 
solicitor  would  have  acted  for  Coggin  against  Mr.  Rambury. 
As  for  his  handling  of  the  case,  it  was  an  abominable  lie  that 
he  had  been  double-faced.  His,  Samuel  Woodley’s,  skill 
alone  had  settled  the  trouble  at  half  the  expense  in  which  any 
other  solicitor  would  have  landed  Coggin.  As  for  his  surren- 
dering instead  of  fighting  the  case  out,  he  admitted  it  and  was 
proud  of  it.  How  could  Coggin  have  gone  before  a judge 
and  jury?  He  would  have  been  laughed  out  of  court. 

‘ 4 Take  just  this  one  point,”  he  continued.  4 ‘ Coggin  admits 
that  Venn-Venning  said  the  pictures  were  from  his  uncle’s. 
His  uncle’s,  Mr.  Redding.  Think  of  a witty  Q.C.  on  the 
other  side  addressing  the  jury  on  a needy  adventurer ’s  uncle ! 
I repeat  Coggin  would  have  been  laughed  out  of  court — cov- 
ered with  a ridicule  even  more  damaging  than  the  disgrace.” 

Redding  let  Samuel  Woodley  talk  on  for  at  least  five  min- 
utes more  without  any  interruption  save  the  occasional  pen- 
ciling of  a note  on  a scrap  of  paper  before  him.  When  the 
solicitor’s  breath  failed,  Rambury  craned  forward  to  speak: 
but  his  cunningly-framed  words  were  never  uttered.  Redding 
rapped  the  table  sharply  with  a ruler  and  said : 

“You  have  been  told  already  that  Mr.  Coggin  and  I have 
another  appointment.  Our  time  is  nearly  up.  Mr.  Rambury, 
when  you  were  asked  for  your  opinion  you  would  not  give  it ; 
and  now  it  is  no  longer  wanted.  Mr.  Woodley,  you  said  I 
regarded  you  as  Mr.  Rambury ’s  accomplice.  I prefer  to  call 
you  an  accessory  after  the  fact.  Your  speech  just  now  was 
rambling  and  terribly  long,  but  I thank  you  for  it.  You  have 
flooded  with  light  several  comers  of  this  disgusting  affair 
which  were  obscure  till  you  spoke;  and  you  have  given  me  the 


THE  DELIVERER  113 

key  to  more  than  one  passage  in  Venn- Venning’s  statement. 
Listen.” 

Edward  read  rapidly  and  distinctly  the  paragraph  in  the 
confession  about  Venn- Venning’s  uncle;  and  he  added  a few 
other  excerpts  which  shewed  how  deeply  Coggin ’s  solicitor  had 
been  admitted  to  Rambury ’s  confidence  and  how  thoroughly 
the  pretended  antagonists  had  played  into  one  another’s  hands. 
Here  a word  and  there  a phrase,  here  a fact  and  there  a fiction, 
chimed  in  fatal  unison  with  Mr.  Woodley’s  too  fluent  apologia. 
Putting  the  confession  back  in  its  envelope,  Edward  Redding 
went  on  harshly: 

“Sir,  you  sold  Mr.  Coggin,  your  client.  Furthermore,  in 
defiance  of  all  professional  honor,  you  disclosed  his  private 
affairs  in  idle  gossip  to  strangers  and  you  even  poured  on  him 
the  ridicule  from  which  you  say  you  labored  to  save  him. 
And  for  betraying  him,  for  slandering  him,  for  helping  this 
dirty  scoundrel  Rambury  to  ruin  him,  for  laughing  at  him 
behind  his  back,  you  have  overcharged  Mr.  Coggin  at  least 
fifty  guineas.  I have  perused  your  bill  of  costs.  Now,  heed 
my  words.  Either  you  will  undertake,  before  the  clock  points 
to  twenty-five  minutes  past  seven,  to  make  full  and  swift 
amends  ...  or  something  will  happen.  Albert  Rambury, 
stand  up.  Do  you  hear  me?  Stand  up!” 

As  pale  as  death,  Rambury  rose  to  his  feet.  Once  more  he 
tried  to  speak;  once  more  he  was  thundered  down. 

“Before  you  entered  this  room  to-night,”  said  Redding, 
“Mr.  Coggin  entrusted  your  fate  to  my  discretion.  I have 
spoken  of  three  courses.  A thrashing  which  may  mean  your 
death  and  his  imprisonment;  or  your  immediate  arrest  and 
almost  certain  ruin;  or  forgiveness  on  conditions.  Albert 
Rambury,  I ought  to  decide  on  the  thrashing.  Your  own 
father  worked  upward  from  being  a poor  boy;  yet  you  have 
despised  Harry  Coggin  because  he  was  humbly  born.  You 
affect  to  love  music:  yet  a vile  jealousy  has  urged  you  to  hu- 


114 


THE  HARE 


miliate  and  thwart  the  one  musician  in  this  town  whom  you 
should  have  been  proudest  to  know  and  to  encourage.  You 
set  yourself  up  as  a judge  of  pictures ; and  you  have  used  your 
little  knowledge,  your  dangerously  little  knowledge,  to  ruin 
and  to  try  and  drive  from  his  native  place  a scholar  and  an 
artist  whose  boots  you  are  not  fit  to  clean.  You  and  yours 
hate  him  because  he  has  made  a little  money — not  like  you,  by 
usury  and  by  trickery,  but  by  hard  work  with  his  own  hands. 
Albert  Rambury,  have  you  anything  to  say  before  I pronounce 
sentence?” 

“It  ’s  lies,  all  lies,  lies,  lies,”  cried  Rambury.  His  voice  was 
almost  a scream. 

“Is  it  a lie  that  you  sent  Venn-Venning  to  this  old  chapel 
with  those  forged  pictures?  Is  it  a lie  that  you  saw  Venn- 
Venning  that  same  evening  and  that  you  were  told  what  had 
passed?  Is  it  a lie  that  you  sent  Tranter  here  too?  Is  it  a 
lie  that  you  bought  one  of  the  pictures  in  bad  faith?  Is  it 
a lie  that  the  other  plaintiff,  the  Londoner  Brassington,  was  a 
man  of  straw  and  your  nominee?  Is  it  a lie  that  this  poor 
indolent  procrastinating  drunkard  Woodley,  with  his  dwind- 
ling practice,  his  weakening  wits  and  his  foggy  mind,  became 
your  tool  ? Is  it  a lie  that  you  were  concerned  in  the  wreck- 
ing of  those  concerts?  Think  well,  before  you  answer,  Al- 
bert Rambury.  If  you  say  that  one,  even  one,  of  these  state- 
ments of  mine  is  a lie — then  you  will  have  told  the  arch  lie, 
the  last  lie,  the  lie  we  shall  not  endure.  Think  well.  But  do 
not  dally.  Have  I told  one  lie,  one  single  lie?  Speak.  I 
shall  not  wait.  Have  I lied  ? Yes  or  no  ? ” 

A silence  followed ; a silence  intensified  by  the  multitudinous 
ticking  of  Coggin’s  big  and  little  clocks,  all  over  the  build- 
ing. It  was  as  if  a hundred  grievous  hearts,  some  sharp  with 
pain,  some  dull  with  sorrow,  were  beating,  beating,  beating. 
Rambury *s  nerves  gave  way.  He  staggered  up  to  the  table 
and  fell  forward  supporting  himself  on  the  palms  of  his 


THE  DELIVERER  115 

hands.  Then,  with  his  lips  not  more  than  six  or  seven  inches 
from  Redding’s  eyes,  he  whimpered: 

“No.  It ’s  all  true.  You  have  not  lied.” 

“Samuel  Woodley,  step  here  and  stand  by  Albert  Ram- 
bury,”  commanded  Redding.  “I  decide  on  the  last  of  the 
three  courses.  You  shall  be  forgiven,  on  conditions.  The 
conditions  are  these : 

i ‘ Provided  his  honor  is  completely  and  publicly  vindicated ; 
provided  you  both  acknowledge  your  offense;  and  provided 
full  reparation  is  made  to  him ; then  Mr.  Coggin  will  not  only 
wipe  the  sponge  over  this  affair  but  will  sell  his  business  and 
leave  Bulford  for  good.  The  dust  of  this  town,  where  he 
has  known  nothing  save  humiliation  and  persecution,  shall  be 
shaken  from  his  feet.  Good  news  for  you,  isn’t  it,  Albert 
Rambury  ? But  there ’s  a price  to  pay. 

“The  night  before  Coggin  quits  Bulford,  we  shall  have  a 
meeting  in  the  Town  Hall.  At  that  meeting  you  and  Mr. 
Woodley,  with  others,  will  make  short  speeches  to  the  effect 
that  you  have  watched  him  closely  in  business  and  that  you 
have  never  known  a more  upright  and  honorable  man  than 
Henry  Coggin.  Your  speeches  must  be  written  down  and 
submitted  to  me  beforehand,  and  must  be  delivered  verbatim 
according  to  the  approved  manuscripts,  with  no  variation 
whatever.  Furthermore,  you  will  both  subscribe  to  a testi- 
monial which  will  be  presented  to  Mr.  Coggin  on  that  occa- 
sion. Mr.  Woodley,  you  will  subscribe  one  hundred  guineas. 
Mr.  Rambury,  your  contribution  will  be  five  hundred  pounds. 
I have  finished.  You  may  go  home.” 

Albert  Rambury  stumbled  backward,  with  one  arm  cover- 
ing his  eyes  as  if  to  ward  off  a blow.  Then  he  went  raging 
mad.  “Five  hundred  pounds!”  he  screamed.  “It’s  rob- 
bery, it ’s  ...  it ’s  blackguardly  blackmail.  Woodley, 
Woodley!  You  ’re  a witness.  You  heard  him  say  it.  It ’s 
blackmaiL  We  ’ve  been  threatened  with  assault  and  battery. 


116 


THE  HARE 


These  two  swindlers  have  demanded  money  with  menaces. 
We  11  go  straight  to  the  police.  We  ’ll  . . 

“I  ’ve  told  you  to  go  home,”  said  Redding.  “Go;  or  I ’ll 
kick  you  out.  When  you ’ve  gone,  you  may  run  straight  down 
to  the  police,  if  you  like ; but  make  no  mistake  about  the  sequel. 
Albert  Rambury,  you  may  be  able  to  put  Henry  Coggin  and 
me  into  gaol  for  an  hour ; but  if  you  do,  you  yourself  shall  lie 
in  prison  for  years — that  is,  if  Slogger  doesn’t  kill  you  before 
you  go  there.  My  offer  remains  open  until  half-past  nine 
to-night.  If  you  bring  policemen,  we  shall  be  here;  and 
other  people  will  be  here  also.  But  if  by  half-past  nine  you 
have  not  accepted  my  offer  it  will  be  withdrawn,  and  our  first 
blow  will  fall  this  very  night.  There  can  be  no  haggling. 
Five  hundred  pounds  and  one  hundred  guineas.  Now,  clear 
out.” 

Redding  strode  towards  the  library  door  and  led  the  way. 
Outside  the  old  vestry  he  paused  long  enough  for  the  guilty 
pair  to  have  one  more  view  of  the  resplendent  dining-table 
and  the  opulent  side-board.  As  the  vestry  was  darkened  by 
some  great  apple-trees  in  the  neighboring  orchard,  more  can- 
dles had  been  lighted  during  the  debate  in  the  library,  giving 
still  greater  magnificence  to  the  scene. 

When  the  chapel  portals  had  closed  on  the  two  dismayed 
and  bewildered  wretches  and  they  stood  safely  in  the  deserted 
street,  Rambury ’s  courage  returned  to  him.  “Come,”  he  said 
imperiously,  “let ’s  at  once  obtain  a warrant  for  their  arrest. 
We ’ve  been  fools.  Late  dinner  and  flowers  and  wine — phew ! 
All  vulgar,  theatrical  bounce.  Two  swindlers  and  black- 
mailers. I don’t  doubt  that  Redding  has  n’t  a shilling,  except 
what  he ’s  getting  out  of  Coggin.  Hurry  up,  Woodley.  We 
must  face  it.  Boldness  always  pays.  As  soon  as  they  know 
there ’s  a warrant  out,  we  shall  have  both  our  bold  young  gen- 
tlemen on  their  knees.” 

“No,”  said  Woodley,  stepping  back.  “I ’m  done  with  you, 


THE  DELIVERER 


in 


Mr.  Rambury.  By  God’s  help,  I ’m  a different  man  from 
to-night.  What  Redding  said  was  true.  My  eyes  are  opened. 
I ’ve  been  going  down  hill.  I ’m  ashamed  of  myself  in  this 
affair  of  Coggin — yes,  and  in  many  other  affairs  too.  I ’m 
going  to  pay.  A hundred  guineas  takes  a lot  of  raising  but 
it ’s  got  to  be  done.” 

“I  sha’n’t  pay  a penny!”  cried  Rambury. 

“Then  the  bigger  fool  you.  They  ’re  letting  you  off  dirt 
cheap.  Don’t  you  see?  You  both  claimed  and  obtained  dam- 
ages, money  damages,  from  Coggin  for  a wrong  to  which  you 
had  yourself  been  a party,  even  if  you  weren’t  the  prime 
mover.  Now  that  the  hunt ’s  up,  I would  rather  be  Samuel 
Woodley  than  Albert  Rambury.” 

“I  sha’n’t  pay  a penny!”  snapped  Rambury  again.  But, 
just  as  Woodley  was  opening  his  mouth  to  argue  the  matter 
further,  a lordly  noise  cut  him  short. 

Over  the  kidney-stones  of  the  narrow  street  came  a carriage 
drawn  by  two  stamping  horses.  The  solicitor,  who  had  been 
standing  with  one  foot  on  the  curb  and  the  other  in  the  dry 
gutter,  sprang  back  for  safety,  pulling  Rambury  with  him  into 
the  shelter  of  a doorway.  The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  chapel 
gates  and  Mr.  Alfred  Tranter  handed  out  Mrs.  Hilliard. 

“There ’s  the  sneak  that ’s  done  it,”  hissed  Rambury  be- 
tween his  teeth.  “But  . . . who ’s  this?” 

A second  carriage  thumped  up  and  came  to  a halt.  From 
its  ample  interior  emerged  Sir  George  Batwood;  and  Lady 
Batwood,  looking  very  lovely,  descended  shyly  after  him. 
Having  helped  her  ladyship  to  alight,  the  baronet,  who  was 
not  happy  at  the  thought  of  bringing  his  exquisite  young 
spouse  to  dine  in  a second-hand  furniture  shop  which  had  been 
a Dissenting  chapel,  swept  the  precincts  with  a nervous  glance. 
His  keen  eye  caught  Woodley  and  Rambury.  Without  a 
moment’s  hesitation  he  strode  up  to  them  and  said: 

“Mr.  Woodley,  you  have  behaved  shamefully  to  young  Cog- 


118 


THE  HARE 


gin.  With  my  own  ears,  I heard  you  defame  him.  What  are 
you  doing  here?  Why  are  you  sneaking  and  spying  about 
with  this  cur  Rambury?  Let  us  understand  one  another.  If 
you  are  up  to  any  more  dirty  work  I shall  borrow  my  coach- 
man’s whip  and  thrash  you  both,  here  and  now,  till  there ’s 
a crowd  filling  the  street.  Answer  me.  What  are  you  doing 
here?” 

“I  am  here,  Sir  George,”  replied  Mr.  Woodley,  with  great 
humility,  “to  discuss  a proposed  testimonial  to  Mr.  Coggin. 
I have  decided  to  subscribe  one  hundred  guineas.” 

“The  deuce  you  have!”  cried  the  baronet.  “And  what 
about  Rambury.” 

“He  has  not  yet  made  up  his  mind,”  purred  Mr.  Woodley, 
who  had  suddenly  become  gay,  now  that  the  danger  was  past. 
“But  I sha’n’t  be  in  the  least  surprised  if  he  puts  himself 
down  for  five  hundred  pounds.” 


/ 


CHAPTER  XII 


THROUGHOUT  the  seven  days  nest  ensuing  on  Al- 
bert Rambury’s  complete  surrender,  Edward  Red- 
ding was  the  busiest  man  in  the  country.  At  five 
o ’clock  every  morning  he  braved  the  cold  river,  swimming  like 
a fish.  The  early  plunge,  followed  by  a plowboy’s  breakfast, 
so  toughened  and  strengthened  him  that  he  raced  with  zest 
through  a hundred  labors. 

There  were  no  more  dinners  in  the  vestry.  As  soon  as  the 
staggering  news  of  the  proposed  testimonial  and  of  Rambury ’s 
five  hundred  pounds  had  run  round  the  town,  invitations  blew 
towards  the  chapel  like  autumn  leaves  in  a gale.  Harry  was 
included  in  all  these  proffers  of  hospitality ; partly  because  it 
had  become  known  that  Mr.  Redding  would  not  dine  abroad 
without  his  protege,  and  mainly  because,  as  Coggin  was  leav- 
ing the  town,  his  hosts  did  not  need  to  fear  social  complica- 
tions later  on.  In  choosing  amidst  the  invitations,  Edward 
Redding  displayed  supreme  tact,  nor  did  he  fail  to  make  a 
personal  call  in  every  instance  where  he  had  to  say  “No.” 

In  spite  of  his  diffidence,  Coggin  was  not  a failure  in  the 
dining-rooms  of  Bulford’s  high  society.  He  wore  his  new 
clothes  with  distinction  and  he  rapidly  acquired  the  latest 
table-manners  as  expounded  by  his  guardian.  As  a conver- 
tionalist  he  gave  universal  satisfaction  through  his  respectful 
attention  to  the  remarks  made  by  others,  the  greatest  bores  not 
excepted.  Furthermore,  Edward  Redding  took  care  to  turn 
the  talk  artfully,  now  and  again,  towards  topics  on  which  he 
knew  that  Coggin  could  speak  freshly  and  well. 

The  testimonial  made  almost  terrifying  progress,  like  a 

119 


120 


THE  HARE 


snowball  rolling  down-bill.  While  a few  shrewd  cynics 
guessed  that  there  was  something  behind  Albert  Rambury’s 
astounding  subscription,  the  citizens  generally  found  in  it  a 
spur  to  rivalry.  By  the  Friday  afternoon  so  much  money 
had  flowed  in  that  the  Bulford  Mercury  was  able  to  say: 

The  principal  topic  of  local  conversation  this  week  has  been 
the  imminent  departure  from  Bulford  of  Mr.  Henry  Coggin, 
the  talented  young  composer  who  is  so  universally  respected 
and  deservedly  esteemed  among  us.  We  learn  that  the  fund 
for  presenting  a testimonial  to  Mr.  Coggin  already  amounts  to 
over  £1600.  Lord  Bulcaster,  who  shewed  a lively  interest  in 
Mr.  Coggin  at  the  outset  of  his  remarkable  career,  has  con- 
tributed £50.  It  is  expected  that  fully  £2000  will  be  raised. 
The  presentation  will  be  made  in  the  Town  Hall  next  Wed- 
nesday evening,  at  half-past  six.  Sir  George  Batwood,  Bart., 
will  preside,  and  wrill  be  supported  by  His  Worship  the  Mayor 
and  by  most  of  our  leading  citizens. 

Much  more  than  £2000  flowed  in.  Bulford  was  a town 
where  rivalries  ran  strong;  and  by  the  time  Edward  Redding 
had  cunningly  coaxed  subscriptions  out  of  twenty  carefully 
selected  individuals  the  triumph  of  his  plan  was  assured. 
People  who  did  not  care  a brass  button  for  Harry  Coggin  sent 
checks  for  handsome  sums,  so  as  to  outdo  their  social  rivals. 
Most  of  the  money,  however,  was  intelligently  subscribed  on 
solid  grounds.  The  more  high-minded  citizens  suddenly  felt 
ashamed  of  their  long  apathy  and  stirred  themselves  up  to 
pay  tardy  honor  to  a neglected  genius.  Others,  who  had  been 
concerned  in  the  affair  of  the  concerts  and  in  other  jealous 
manceuvers  against  Coggin,  hastened  to  subscribe  all  they 
could  afford.  These  mean  wretches  had  correctly  interpreted 
Rambury’s  five  hundred  pounds  and  they  hailed  the  testi- 
monial with  delight,  as  a kind  of  lightning-conductor  to  divert 


THE  DELIVERER 


121 


from  them  the  suspicions  of  the  terrible  young  Mr.  Redding. 
But  by  far  the  largest  numbers  of  contributions,  though  not  the 
largest  in  money,  came  from  simple  and  honest  folk,  high  and 
low.  Edward  Redding  perused  with  a choking  throat  some 
of  the  letters  accompanying  these  shillings  and  half-crowns. 
It  was  evident  that,  although  Harry  Coggin  had  flourished  in 
business  and  had  become  the  owner  of  a large  and  valuable 
stock,  he  might  have  been  not  merely  comfortable  but  rich 
if  he  had  not  steadily  helped  the  less  fortunate. 

One  letter — a widow ’s  letter — ran : “ I was  without  a penny, 
and  three  weeks  still  to  go  to  the  end  of  the  quarter ; so  I sent 
for  young  Coggin  to  buy  my  only  valuables — my  dear  hus- 
band’s writing-table  and  chair.  Mr.  C.  lent  me  ten  pounds 
and  never  took  the  things  away,  and  he  let  me  pay  him  back 
a pound  a quarter,  without  interest.” 

Another  letter,  a blotty  scrawl,  enclosed  ten  shillings  and 
said:  “For  what  Mr.  H.  Cogin  did  when  the  brokers  was 
in.” 

A third  read:  “Five  shillings  for  the  only  broker  in  Bul- 
ford  with  a heart  instead  of  a flint  under  his  waistcoat; 
wishing  it  was  five  pounds.” 

A fourth:  “In  grateful  memory  of  six  bottles  of  old  port- 
wine  sent  annonnimus  when  my  poor  daughter  was  in  a de- 
cline. From  one  who  knows  they  was  from  Harry  C.” 

There  were  exactly  two  score  of  such  letters ; and,  although 
Edward  Redding  tore  up  many  cream-laid  sheets  from  wealthy 
subscribers  in  Victoria  Park,  he  folded  the  forty  grimy  scrawls 
with  exceeding  reverence  and  tied  them  up  as  if  they  had  been 
the  holographs  of  Shakespeare  Sonnets. 

Meanwhile,  heaven  had  smiled  upon  Coggin ’s  other  affairs. 
The  Demehaven  furniture-dealers  jumped  at  their  chance  of 
acquiring  a branch  establishment  in  Bulford;  but  they  did 
not  wish  to  take  over  the  antiques  and  “instances  of  vertu,” 


122 


THE  HARE 


which  were  out  of  their  depth.  This  passing  cloud,  however, 
soon  shewed  a golden  lining.  Edward  Redding  caused  it  to 
be  whispered  about,  as  a valuable  secret  for  a few  privileged 
persons,  that  Coggin  was  not  unwilling  to  clear  out  his  best 
things  on  alluring  terms.  For  three  days  there  was  a rush. 
Everybody  was  satisfied,  especially  Coggin ; for,  although  he 
sold  his  plate  and  china  and  glass,  his  busts  and  statuettes  and 
pictures,  his  cabinets  and  clocks  and  choice  books  at  reduced 
prices,  he  was  nevertheless  paid  nearly  two  hundred  pounds 
more  than  he  would  have  received  for  the  same  articles  if 
they  had  been  lumped  together  with  his  chairs  and  tables  and 
other  merely  commercial  stuff,  and  handed  over  to  the  Deme- 
haven  firm. 

But  the  glittering  dust  raised  by  all  these  successes  and 
excitements  could  not  hide  from  sight  certain  new  gaunt 
sorrows.  Hour  by  hour  the  chapel  grew  more  bare  and  un- 
homelike as  the  purchasers  drove  away,  each  with  some  fine 
object  either  resting  on  the  carriage  seat  or  following  on  a 
barrow.  By  Saturday  morning  every  clock,  every  carpet, 
every  settee,  and  nearly  all  the  other  furniture  had  gone. 
Worse  still,  the  airy,  tranquil  dwelling-house  which  Harry  had 
so  laboriously  constructed  out  of  the  old  chapel-vestry  and 
Sunday  School  was  already  half  dismantled.  In  the  library 
the  shelves  were  bare  and  the  floor  was  cumbered  with  packing- 
cases  containing  Coggin’s  personal  treasures.  These  included 
about  a thousand  books ; the  old  ink-stained  piano ; the  furni- 
ture and  pictures  from  the  Redding  bed-room;  a huge  mass 
of  music ; and  some  souvenirs  of  Mrs.  Coggin. 

The  organ  was  sold  at  a surprisingly  high  price  to  a little 
Crystal  Palace  which  some  speculators  were  building  just  out- 
side Demehaven;  but  as  pipe  after  pipe  disappeared  Harry 
felt  as  if  teeth  had  been  pulled  out  of  his  head  and  blood 
drawn  from  his  veins.  To  Edward  Redding  there  was  noth- 
ing in  these  partings.  When  the  organ-builders’  men  first 


THE  DELIVERER 


123 


arrived,  Redding  came  tearing  into  the  vestry  full  of  the 
glad  news;  and  when  their  work  was  finished,  he  danced  a 
hornpipe  where  the  keyboards  and  bench  had  stood.  To 
Harry  Coggin  all  this  was  as  though,  in  a house  of  mourning, 
some  one  had  cried  gleefully,  4 4 Here  ’s  the  undertaker !”  and 
finally  “Hooray,  out  goes  the  coffin  at  last!” 

This  heartlessness,  or  rather  thoughtlessness,  marked  Red- 
ding’s behavior  more  strongly  every  day.  Although  he  had 
sternly  upbraided  Rambury  and  Woodley  for  treating  Cog- 
gin  as  a creature  destitute  of  ordinary  susceptibilities,  he 
himself  repeatedly  failed  to  remember  that  his  young  friend 
was  more  highly-strung,  more  delicate,  more  sensitive  than  any 
of  Bulford’s  softly  nurtured  sons — more  finely  tuned,  indeed, 
than  Edward  Redding  himself.  Ten  times  a day  the  Ger- 
man plan  was  revived  and  developed,  always  with  some  jest 
of  which  Coggin  was  the  butt.  Redding  was  honestly  fond  of 
Harry  Coggin,  just  as  a thoughtless,  healthly  boy  is  honestly 
fond  of  the  dog  which  he  drags  and  pushes  and  hoaxes  and 
caresses  and  stuffs  and  torments  all  day  long;  but  it  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  even  a dog  may  have  become  attached  to 
his  corner  of  the  back-yard,  if  not  to  his  very  chain. 

“Great  news,  Hans  Coggenheim!”  he  cried,  bursting  into 
the  chapel  an  hour  after  the  organ  had  been  taken  away. 
“I ’ve  sold  Bay  Rum  for  a hundred  guineas. 9 9 

Coggin  turned  as  pale  as  death.  He  tried  to  speak.  “A 
hundred  guineas,”  said  Redding  again.  “And  you  told  me 
yourself  you  only  gave  fifty-five  for  him.  Why,  what ’s  the 
matter?” 

“I  cannot  sell  Bay  Rum,”  said  Coggin,  with  tremors  in  his 
voice  and  in  his  hands. 

“But  you  must.  Why,  what  do  you  expect?  Have  you 
got  the  idea  that  Germany  is  still  a land  of  romance,  where  you 
go  pricking  o’er  the  lea  like  the  Gentle  Knight,  on  horseback, 
from  one  frowning  castle  to  another?  If  so,  put  it  out  of 


12* 


THE  HARE 


your  head,  mein  wolilgeboren  Herr  Coggenheimer.  Tour  new 
country  is  blest  with  almost  as  many  railways  as  your  old 
one,  and  with  far  more  steamboats.  No,  no.  Bay  Rum  must 
be  sold.  You  ’ll  be  in  Germany  at  least  a year,  and  you 
can’t  have  the  poor  beast  eating  his  head  off  and  his  heart 
out  as  long  as  that.  Besides,  I ’ve  sold  him  to  a kind  master, 
the  Honorable  and  Reverend  Cayley  Mallington,  the  new 
curate  at  St.  Michael ’s.  Here  is  his  check.  By  the  way,  they 
paid  you  cash  down  for  the  organ?  Oh,  and  the  curate 
does  n’t  want  Bay  Rum  till  Wednesday.” 

Harry  moved  away.  For  once  he  was  on  the  point  of  los- 
ing his  self-control  and  of  tearing  himself  loose  from  this 
benevolent  tyrant.  He  mastered  himself,  however,  and  it  was 
with  calm  features  that  he  turned  round  again  and  said 
quietly : 

“I  shall  feel  it,  parting  with  Bay  Rum.  He  is  not  an 
ordinary  horse — not  to  me.  But  I know  you  are  doing  what 
you  believe  is  for  the  best,  so  I must  get  over  it.  But  perhaps, 
Mr.  Edward — perhaps  this  is  the  moment  for  asking  one  favor. 
To-morrow  is  Sunday.  You  said  that  Mrs.  Hilliard  expects 
us  for  the  whole  day,  now  that  this  home  is  broken  up.  Will 
she  be  offended  if  I stay  away?  Will  she  mind  if  you  go 
alone?  You  see,  I want  just  one  day  for  . . . for  some  pri- 
vate affairs.” 

“Certainly  not!  I refuse!”  cried  Redding.  “I  can  guess 
what  you  ’ll  be  up  to.  You  mean  to  go  round  your  pensioners, 
dropping  five  pounds  here  and  a guinea  there.  No,  no.  I ’ve 
thought  about  this  already.  On  our  last  morning  in  Bulford, 
we  will  run  round  and  do  something  for  the  really  deserving. 
I ’ll  add  a bit  myself.  We  ’ll  give  ’em  money;  but  we  won’t 
give  ’em  any  address  or  they  ’ll  sponge  on  you  till  you  die. 
Remember,  Herr  Orgelspielmann,  that  there  won’t  be  any 
more  money  for  years  after  this.  It ’s  been  coming  in  fast 
these  last  few  days;  but  next  week  it  will  begin  leaking  out 


THE  DELIVERER 


125 


again.  We  may  be  in  the  eighteen-seventies  before  you  are 
solidly  established  as  a Herr  Professor  with  an  income  enough 
to  pay  your  expenses.  So  there ’s  no  leave  of  absence  to- 
morrow, mein  arme  knabe.” 

“You  and  Mrs.  Hilliard  must  indeed  excuse  me,”  said  Cog- 
gin  respectfully  but  very  firmly.  “You  would  not  have  me 
leave  Bulford  forever  without  visiting  the  grave  of  my  par- 
ents.” 

Edward  Redding’s  bright  countenance  suddenly  clouded 
over.  Stung  by  remorse,  he  seized  his  friend ’s  hand  and  said 
warmly:  “Forgive  me,  I ought  to  have  remembered.  To- 
morrow I will  go  with  you.” 

“No,”  said  Coggin,  more  firmly  than  before.  “You  did  not 
know  my  parents.  You  never  saw  my  mother.  I must  go 
alone.  ’ 9 

It  was  just  after  breakfast,  the  next  morning,  that  Harry 
said  farewell  to  his  dead.  Their  dust  rested  under  a white 
cross  in  the  New  Cemetery;  for,  as  William  Coggin  had  died 
a Dissenter,  sepulture  in  the  churchyard  was  denied  him, 
and  his  wife’s  remains  lay  with  his,  at  her  own  request. 

When  St.  Michael’s  and  St.  Peter’s  bells  began  to  chime, 
the  lonely  mourner  rose  from  his  knees  and  left  the  grave- 
side. It  was  a glorious  day — just  like  that  Sunday,  twelve 
years  before,  when  the  Rector  had  departed  from  Bulford 
forever.  As  Harry  reentered  the  town,  the  bells  were  still 
dinning  their  godly  summons;  but  he  disobeyed  them.  In- 
stead of  passing  through  the  graceful  doorway  of  St.  Peter’s  or 
the  massive  porch  of  St.  Michael’s,  he  made  his  way,  for  the 
first  time  in  five  years,  to  the  Baptist  Chapel. 

The  service  was  commencing  as  he  walked  into  the  building ; 
for  he  had  timed,  his  arrival  so  as  to  avoid  greetings  and  con- 
versations. None  the  less,  the  congregation  fell  into  a flutter 
before  he  could  slip  into  the  back  seat  of  his  choice.  Mr. 


126 


THE  HARE 


Backhouse,  the  richest  and  most  powerful  of  Bulford’s  Bap- 
tists, fussed  out  into  the  gangway  and  pushed  the  distinguished 
visitor  into  his  upholstered  and  cushioned  pew,  while  Mrs. 
Iloy,  the  wealthy  widow  of  a grocer,  turned  round  from  her 
place  in  front  of  him  and  handed  him  a morocco-bound  hymn- 
book  open  at  the  right  place.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Clupp,  the  pas- 
tor, had  caught  sight  of  Coggin  from  the  pulpit. 

Mr.  Clupp,  although  a direct  and  fearless  preacher  when 
dealing  with  the  errors  and  faults  of  persons  who  had  never 
heard  of  himself  or  his  chapel,  had  long  been  circumlocutory 
and  timid  when  it  came  to  admonishing  the  men  and  women 
who  frequented  his  ministrations.  With  the  passing  of  years 
he  had  become  more  and  more  afraid  of  giving  offense;  with 
the  result  that  his  sermons  were  increasingly  abstract.  He  was 
therefore  reduced  to  sending  his  flock  various  gentle  hints  vid 
Heaven.  That  is  to  say,  he  would  introduce  his  praise  and 
blame,  his  hope  and  fear,  into  the  long  extemporaneous  prayer 
which  always  followed  the  opening  hymn.  It  was  much  easier 
to  say  something  personal  when  your  own  and  every  other  eye 
was  shut. 

After  praying  at  large  for  familiar  blessings  in  familiar 
phrases,  Mr.  Clupp  became  less  glib.  Framing  the  sentences 
painfully,  he  said:  “Furthermore,  we  thank  Thee,  0 Lord, 
for  the  favor  Thou  hast  shewn  to  one  here  present  whose 
youthful  mind  and  character  were  first  formed  in  this  Thy 
temple,  under  the  ministry  of  Thy  most  unprofitable  servant. 
Grant  unto  him,  we  beseech  Thee,  a spirit  of  gratitude  and 
of  humility.  Prosper  him  in  all  his  goings  and  all  his  doings. 
And  may  he,  and  all  others  whom  Thou  hast  blessed  in  basket 
and  in  store,  remember  that  they  are  but  stewards  of  Thy 
bounty.  ’ ’ 

Certain  of  the  elect  punctuated  Pastor  Clupp ’s  petition  with 
so  fervent  an  Amen  that  Harry  involuntarily  thrust  two 
fingers  into  his  breast-pocket  to  make  sure  that  a certain  en- 


THE  DELIVERER 


127 


velope  still  crackled  safely  there.  More  hymn-singing  fol- 
lowed and  some  Bible-reading ; and  then  Mr.  Clupp  made  some 
announcements.  As  usual,  the  chapel  was  in  the  throes  of  a 
financial  crisis.  The  debt  on  current  expenses  amounted  to 
forty-eight  pounds,  nine  shillings  and  fivepence — ‘ ‘ a consider- 
able sum,  a very  serious  sum”  as  the  pastor  called  it.  “But 
perhaps  not  beyond  the  power  of  some  generous  friend  to 
wipe  out  with  one  stroke  of  the  pen.” 

Harry  Coggin’s  attempts  to  follow  the  sermon  failed  ut- 
terly. Mr.  Clupp  had  not  enlarged  or  varied  his  vocabulary 
with  the  effluxion  of  years,  and  his  every  paragraph  contained 
some  mannerism  which  drove  the  young  hearer  back  to  old  hap- 
penings and  old  sufferings.  Nor  was  Harry  the  only  restless 
listener.  The  stuffiness  and  glare  made  sermon-hearing  a tough 
job.  The  preacher,  however,  clacked  on  without  wilting. 

When  the  end  came,  everybody  stood  up  to  sing  the  last 
hymn.  Amidst  the  general  stirring  and  stretching,  Harry 
said  in  low  tones  to  Mr.  Backhouse:  “I  must  slip  away.  Will 
you  please  hand  this  letter  to  the  minister?  I shall  call  on 
everybody  I know,  to  say  good-by.” 

Observed  by  hardly  a dozen  pairs  of  eyes,  he  stole  out  of 
the  chapel.  In  the  silent  street  outside,  he  ran  against  Mrs. 
Pairlop,  a garrulous  hypochondriac  whose  affections  were 
divided  between  rheumatism  and  bronchitis.  Harry  was 
listening  to  certain  pathological  details  when  a melodious  shout 
burst  out  of  the  chapel  like  waters  bursting  a dam.  It  was  the 
metrical  doxology,  “Praise  God  from  Whom  all  blessings 
flow.”  Harry  guessed  what  had  befallen.  Mr.  Clupp  had 
overlooked  a postscript  requesting  him  not  to  make  the  bene- 
faction known  until  the  following  Sunday  and  had  pro- 
claimed the  glad  tidings — fifty  pounds  for  the  chapel  funds 
and  ten  pounds  for  a special  Sunday  School  treat. 

Cutting  Mrs.  Fairlop  short,  Harry  took  to  his  heels,  like  a 
man  caught  red-handed  in  a crime.  Remembering  that  wor- 


128 


THE  HARE 


shippers  would  soon  be  pouring  out  of  the  churches  and 
chapels,  he  chose  a roundabout  course  and  did  not  arrive  at 
his  goal,  which  was  Yellowhammer  Lane,  until  noon  had 
struck. 

During  thirteen  years,  Yellowhammer  Lane  had  been  Harry 
Coggin’s  Holy  of  Holies.  Its  high  hedge-rows  were  his  clois- 
ter. There,  in  all  weathers,  he  had  walked  backwards  and 
forwards  on  at  least  six  hundred  Sunday  afternoons;  and 
even  on  weekdays,  when  any  doubt  or  anxiety  pressed,  it  was 
to  Yellowhammer  Lane  that  the  lonely  youth’s  steps  turned, 
almost  without  his  volition. 

On  this  May  Sunday,  the  whitethorn  and  the  honeysuckle, 
and  the  wild  roses  had  come  to  their  sweetest  scent  and  fairest 
bloom.  From  an  inner  pocket  Harry  took  a thin  old  note- 
book— his  diary,  begun  thirteen  years  before.  He  knew  its 
contents  by  heart ; yet  he  loved  to  read  the  script  aloud  even 
as  a holy  man  loves  to  behold  on  the  pages  of  his  breviary  the 
prayers  and  antiphons  which  he  could  recite  from  memory 
without  a slip. 

Our  Lord  and  Savior  means  us  to  do  something  great  in  the 
world.  Not  in  Bidford.  I say,  in  the  world.  Teddie,  shake 
hands  with  Harry  Coggin. 

Harry  recited  these  words  from  the  diary  not  once  but 
twenty  times,  until  they  became  a kind  of  chant.  Nearly 
thirteen  years  had  passed  since  the  Rector  pacing  along  this 
very  lane  in  his  fever  and  delirium,  first  pronounced  the 
prophecy;  yet  the  sights  and  sounds  of  that  long-past  Sep- 
tember afternoon  were  more  vivid  in  Harry’s  eyes  and  ears 
than  any  sight  and  sound  of  yesterday.  The  whitethorn,  the 
honeysuckle,  the  wild  roses  seemed  unreal,  like  paper  flowers 
on  Christmas  trees;  and  underneath  Spring’s  wantonness  he 
felt  sure  of  Autumn’s  majesty.  Surely  this  perfumed  finery 


THE  DELIVERER 


129 


of  white  and  pink  was  only  a light  veil  over  the  glorious  robe 
of  yellowing  foliage  and  the  bright  necklaces  of  scarlet  berries 
which  Nature  had  worn  on  the  day  of  days. 

The  chanting  weakened  down  to  a whisper.  When  it  had 
ceased,  Harry  came  to  a halt  beside  a gate — the  Rector’s  gate 
— and  mused  deeply,  for  a long  time.  Then,  resuming  his 
march  he  began  thinking  aloud.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that 
the  briars  and  the  thornbushes  of  Yellowhammer  Lane  had 
seen  him  thus  pacing  to  and  fro  and  had  heard  his  odd  mono- 
logues. From  the  night  of  his  mother’s  death  to  the  morning 
of  Edward  Redding’s  unexpected  return,  this  high-strung  lad 
had  not  found  one  human  ear  which  would  have  listened  to 
his  cares  and  sorrows  with  sympathy  and  with  understanding. 
Even  his  piano  and  his  organ  could  not  have  saved  him  from 
despair  and  defeat  if  there  had  been  no  Yellowhammer  Lane 
with  its  memories,  its  obligations  and  its  sense  of  a Guardian 
Presence.  If  prying  eavesdroppers  had  spied  on  him  through 
the  hedges  they  would  have  said  that  here  was  either  a mad- 
man or  a conceited  prig  practising  eloquence  upon  an  imag- 
inary audience.  But  if  they  could  have  caught  his  words  they 
would  have  slunk  away  baffled  and  terrified.  For  Harry 
Coggin ’s  soliloquy  was  not  all  a communing  with  his  own  self. 
Half  of  it  was  addressed  to  some  person  unseen  on  whom  the 
young  man  pressed  questions,  pleadings,  chidings.  And  from 
time  to  time  the  stream  of  words  would  seem  to  fail  for  a 
few  moments,  only  to  flash  forth  again  like  a fountain  in 
quick,  strong  bursts  of  prayer  to  God. 

“It  is  the  last  time,  the  last  time,”  he  began.  “Teddie 
says  it  must  be  so.  On  Wednesday  night  I leave  Bulford, 
never  to  set  eyes  on  it  again. 

“It  has  not  been  God’s  will  and  good  pleasure  that  I should 
be  like  other  people  in  this  town.  Yet  He  has  given  me  much 
happiness.  My  music.  What  does  it  matter  that  they  won’t 
hear  it?  My  mother  and  I were  happy.  I succeeded  with 


THE  HARE 


130 

my  business.  Who  would  have  believed  that  I should  ever 
sell  it  for  more  than  a thousand  pounds?  I have  had  my 
books,  my  good  food  and  wine,  my  horse  . . .” 

But  the  remembrance  of  his  horse  smashed  and  swamped 
Harry’s  submissiveness  and  thankfulness;  even  as  a spate  of 
hot  mud  from  an  awakening  volcano  uproots  and  drowns  the 
smiling  vineyards.  For  nearly  a fortnight  he  had  lain  like 
cold  clay  in  the  potter’s  hands;  but  he  suddenly  became  a 
flaming  coal.  Anger  and  despair  wrung  from  him  a moan 
of  pain. 

“M y horse,  my  good  horse !”  he  cried.  “It  was  a shame 
for  Teddie  to  do  that.  What  right  had  he  to  sell  my  horse, 
the  only  friend  I had?  How  can  I look  Bay  Rum  in  the  eyes 
when  I say  good-by?  What  do  I care  about  his  hundred 
guineas?  Money,  money  . . . for  a week  it ’s  been  nothing 
but  money.  I hate  the  name  and  sight  of  money.  I don’t 
want  their  testimonial.  I won’t  take  it.  Let  them  put  their 
guineas  back  in  their  pockets.  Yes!  I know  what  I ’ll  do. 
I ’ll  buy  Bay  Rum  back  to-morrow.  And  I ’ll  buy  back  my 
business.  I am  a man,  not  a child.” 

He  picked  up  a clod  of  earth  and  hurled  it  savagely  along 
the  lane,  like  a gage  flung  in  the  face  of  his  officious  friend. 
The  missile  smashed  through  the  stems  and  twigs  of  a giant 
hawthorn,  bringing  down  the  sweet  petals  in  a little  snow- 
storm. Harry  recoiled  in  sudden  awe.  When  had  he  last 
watched  white  blossoms  fluttering  earthward  ? He  knew  full 
well.  It  was  on  that  other  Sunday  in  May,  when  the  Rector 
passed  for  the  last  time  out  of  Bulford  church-yard,  blessing 
the  people  with  the  sign  of  the  Cross  while  millions  of  white 
and  red  and  golden  petals  of  lilac,  of  hawthorn  and  of  labur- 
num descended  upon  the  kneeling  outcasts  like  a wondrous 
manna  from  heaven.  This  memory  was  so  sharp  that  Harry 
was,  for  a few  moments,  stupefied.  He  clutched  the  gate.  If, 


THE  DELIVERER 


131 


at  that  moment,  he  had  heard  the  Rector’s  very  voice  speaking 
in  his  ear  as  of  old  he  would  not  have  been  surprised. 

The  thin  diary  pricked  and  burned  in  his  hand ; and  although 
he  did  not  open  it  and  look  at  it,  one  sentence  of  the  Rector’s 
stood  out  before  his  eyes  plainer  than  the  five-barred  gate, 
plainer  than  the  wide-eyed  flowers.  He  seemed,  in  one  and  the 
same  moment,  to  be  both  reading  and  hearing  these  words : 

“Re  brave  . . . Perhaps  God  did  not  bring  us  together  to 
make  us  happy  but  to  make  us  better,  to  make  us  do  His  will, 
to  make  us  give  happiness  to  others  still  unborn.  Let  us 
go.” 

So  overpowering  was  Harry’s  sense  of  his  protector’s  near- 
ness that  he  cried  out: 

“I  will,  I will!  With  God’s  help,  I will  be  brave.  Only 
. . . nobody  save  myself  knows  how  hard  it  is.  Teddie  does 
not  know.  To  him  all#this  seems,  most  of  the  time,  a glorious 
joke  or  an  exciting  adventure.  But  to  me  ...  to  me  it 
means  leaving  forever  nearly  everything  I ’ve  ever  known.  I 
know  I ’ve  been  selfish ; and  I know  my  affairs  had  fallen  into 
ruins  just  before  Teddie  came  to  set  them  right.  Yet  . . . 
I ’ve  tried,  truly  I ’ve  tried.  There  are  poor  people  in  Bul- 
ford  who  look  to  me  for  help ; and  now  Teddie  says  I must  go 
away  and  leave  not  a trace  behind.  Yes,  I ’ve  tried  not  to 
waste  my  life.  When  I have  bought  truly  beautiful  things  I 
have  only  sold  them  again  to  people  who  will  love  them  and 
guard  them  and  pass  them  on  safe  and  sound.  When  I have 
found  among  my  purchases  any  evil  book  or  engraving,  I have 
burnt  it  there  and  then  although  sometimes  I ’ve  needed  the 
money  it  could  have  brought  me.  I have  lived,  by  God ’s  help, 
a clean  life.  As  for  music,  I ’ve  never  sweetened  it  to  make 
it  sell.  It ’s  true  that  my  life  in  Bulford  has  been  hard  and 
lonely,  and  that  nearly  everybody  has  fought  me  or  snubbed  me 
or  cheated  me.  But  Bulford ’s  the  only  home  I ’ve  ever 


132 


THE  HARE 


known.  Teddie  says  I must  shake  its  dust  off  my  feet  and 
never  set  eyes  on  it  again.  More  than  that : he  says  I am  to 
give  up  my  very  name.  I am  not  to  be  Harry  Coggin  any 
more.  I am  to  be  a Monsieur,  or  a Signor  or  a Herr,  hundreds 
of  miles  away.  And  Teddie  has  sold  my  horse,  my  good  horse. 
I bought  Bay  Rum  the  day  after  poor  old  Gulp  died.  Every 
morning,  when  we  meet,  he  pushes  his  muzzle  inside  my  coat 
and  stands  stock  still,  as  if  he ’s  counting  my  heart’s  beats. 
And  Teddie  sold  him  on  Friday.  Oh,  my  dear  Lord  and 
Savior,  help  me  through  these  next  days.  Help  me  to  believe 
every  moment  that  although  Teddie  chatters  and  laughs,  that 
although  he  wTounds  me  ten  times  a day,  he  is  nevertheless  Thy 
messenger.  ’ 7 


Heaven  made  no  tarrying.  But  if  the  answer  to  Harry 
Coggin’s  prayer  was  swift  it  was  also  prosaic.  A pack  of  Bul- 
ford’s  roughest  youths  came  slouching  into  sight.  Their  idea 
of  a sylvan  ramble  was  to  slash  off  the  head  of  every  up- 
standing wayside  flower,  to  poke  their  canes  at  anything  re- 
sembling a bird’s  nest,  and  to  scare  away  the  Sabbath  peace 
with  raucous  fragments  of  beery  songs.  Before  they  could 
catch  sight  of  him,  Harry  climbed  lightly  over  the  gate  and 
hid  himself  on  the  other  side  of  the  dense  hedge-row.  In  the 
company  of  a friendly  cart-horse,  whose  eyes  reminded  him  of 
Gulp’s,  he  ate  the  scanty  meal  which  he  had  brought  with 
him.  It  had  long  been  one  of  his  queer  fancies  to  behave 
hermit-wise  in  Yellowhammer  Lane;  and  not  one  of  the  many 
little  packages  of  food  which  he  had  opened  there  had  ever 
contained  anything  better  than  two  slices  of  unbuttered  bread 
with  a few  lettuce-leaves  or  a handful  of  water-cress  or  some 
radishes  or  a slice  or  two  of  boiled  beetroot.  As  he  stood 
munching  this  mean  fare,  the  bells  of  St.  Michael’s  sounded 
across  the  fields;  and  all  doubt  fled  from  his  soul.  God’s  an- 


THE  DELIVERER  133 

swer  was  that  he  must  depart  in  peace  and  in  faith,  following 
Teddy  Redding’s  light  steps  into  the  unknown. 

With  his  usual  punctiliousness  Harry  carried  out  exactly  the 
remainder  of  his  careful  program  for  the  day.  First,  he  re- 
turned with  great  circumspection  to  Bulford,  at  the  hour 
when  he  knew  the  citizens  would  be  indoors  dozing  after  their 
sirloins  of  beef  and  legs  of  mutton ; and,  stealing  into  St. 
Michael’s  church  by  the  little  choir-door,  he  gazed  for  the 
last  time  at  Mr.  Daplyn ’s  organ,  at  Mr.  Redding ’s  pulpit,  and 
at  the  tiny  brass  disc  lettered  “O.  R.”  on  the  Denniker 
Chantry.  Second,  he  quitted  the  church-yard  by  the  lych- 
gate,  exactly  as  he  had  quitted  it  twelve  years  before;  and 
thence,  street  by  street,  lane  by  lane,  field  by  field,  he  trod 
once  more  the  twisting  path  along  which  he  and  George 
Placker  and  the  Rector  had  walked  after  the  miracle  of  the 
whirling  petals.  Where,  he  wondered,  was  George  Placker 
now?  Third,  he  came  back  from  the  foot  of  Skilbury  Hill  to 
the  patch  of  glistening  white  pebbles  under  the  old  bridge 
over  the  Skilbourne  where  the  Rector  had  bent  down  for  water 
wherewith  to  baptize  him. 

Little  was  changed.  There  were  the  same  stretches  of  light 
and  of  shade  along  the  highways,  the  same  stiles  to  be  climbed, 
the  same  sweet  splendors  of  flower  and  blossom.  Harry  had 
dreamed  this  pilgrimage.  But  he  did  not  find  it  a Via 
Dolorosa,  after  all.  He  compassed,  it  without  morbidness, 
without  mooning,  almost  without  emotion.  Heaven  had 
smiled  upon  his  faith  and  obedience.  Peace  overbrimmed 
that  deep  cup  which  was  his  soul.  Not  a negative  peace,  a 
mere  deliverance  from  doubt  and  grief,  but  a positive  peace, 
like  a full  draught  of  noble  wine;  a peace  which  passed  his 
understanding. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THERE  are  not  many  persons  now  living  who  remem- 
ber the  Assembly-room  of  Bulford  Town  Hall  as  it 
appeared  in  the  year  1864.  Prior  to  its  reconstruc- 
tion in  1866  the  big  room  was  noble  in  itself  but  mean  and 
inconvenient  in  its  approaches.  The  audience  entered  through 
a low  and  dingy  vestibule  formed  by  screening  the  space  un- 
der the  gallery.  This  vestibule  had  an  unpleasant,  lop-sided 
look,  owing  to  the  protrusion  of  a horrible,  stuffy  little  ‘ 4 of- 
fice/ 9 built  of  painted  match-boarding  and  ground  glass,  which 
served  as  a green-room  when  the  hall  was  let  for  a public 
entertainment. 

Through  the  green-room  door,  which  he  had  propped  open 
so  as  to  diminish  the  vile  smell  of  old  gas-fumes,  Edward 
Redding  could  see  the  citizens,  first  dribbling  and  then  stream- 
ing into  the  Assembly-room  for  Coggin’s  triumph.  With  in- 
creasing satisfaction  he  noted  the  arrival  of  many  notables 
whose  support  had  been  uncertain  up  to  this  last  moment. 
Bumpings  and  rumblings  just  over  his  head  proved  that  the 
Pig  Laners  had  turned  up  in  force,  and  that  their  hob-nailed 
boots  were  moving  heavily  on  the  floor  of  the  gallery.  The 
crisp  chattering  and  bright  laughter,  varied  by  occasional 
light  volle3^s  of  applause  which  reached  his  ears,  whenever 
the  folding  doors  swung  open,  told  him  that  everybody  was  in 
high  spirits. 

Sir  George  and  Lady  Batwood  appeared  in  the  green-room 
doorway  with  five  minutes  to  spare.  Close  on  their  heels 
came  the  Mayor,  then  two  or  three  aldermen  and  some  other 
demi-gods.  Woodley,  who  was  to  be  one  of  the  speakers, 

134 


THE  DELIVERER 


135 


joined  them  with  diffidence.  Albert  Rambury,  the  largest 
subscriber  to  the  testimonial,  arrived  last  and  made  a fuss  over 
the  great  personages. 

Suddenly  the  ceiling  of  the  vestibule  quivered  under  a suc- 
cession of  enormous  blows.  The  Pig  Laners  were  rhythmically 
pounding  the  gallery  floor  with  their  iron  heels,  this  being 
their  method  of  gently  hinting  that  the  proceedings  ought  to 
begin.  A procession  was  formed  and  the  doors  into  the  hall 
were  flung  wide  to  welcome  it.  As  the  Batwoods  and  His 
Worship  the  Mayor  were  highly  popular,  their  entrance  evoked 
a rousing  cheer.  Edward  Redding’s  heart  thrilled  proudly. 
This  was  to  be  Coggin’s  triumph  indeed. 

Redding  walked  last.  As  the  door  swung  back  behind  him 
a still  lustier  cheer  rang  out.  He  was  startled.  It  had  never 
entered  his  mind  that  the  populace  at  large  would  be  inter- 
ested in  him  as  Coggin’s  champion  and  deliverer.  Despite  his 
fearless  and  masterful  ways,  this  young  man  was  at  heart 
modest  and  self-effacing.  In  surprise  and  consternation  he 
shrank  back  from  his  admirers ; and  at  that  moment  he  missed 
Rambury  from  the  procession. 

Hardly  knowing  why  he  did  so,  Edward  jerked  open  the 
swing  door  just  as  Rambury  was  grasping  the  handle  on  the 
other  side.  Redding’s  was  the  stronger  wrist,  and  a second 
later  the  two  were  face  to  face. 

“I ’m  here,”  snapped  Rambury.  “I ’m  coming.” 

All  his  family  were  known  for  their  cold  thoroughness  of 
facial  control;  but  at  this  moment  Rambury  could  not  quite 
conceal  his  hatred  and  his  exultation.  He  pushed  past  Red- 
ding, who  might  have  simply  walked  with  him  up  the  central 
gangway  if  his  sharp  eye  had  not  noticed  a stealthy  move- 
ment by  which  the  other  man  tried  to  hasten  the  closing  of  the 
door.  Edward  acted  instantly.  Planting  himself  full  against 
Rambury ’s  narrow  chest  he  pushed  him  roughly  back  till  the 
door  gave  way  and  they  were  both  in  the  vestibule. 


136 


THE  HARE 


Half-a-dozen  men  who  were  lurking  in  the  shadow  made  a 
scuttling  noise,  like  rats,  and  broke  apart.  Although  the 
light  was  bad,  Edward  perceived  at  once  that  they  were  not 
men  of  Bulford.  He  sniffed  a metropolitan  rather  than  a 
provincial  air  about  them. 

“Who  are  these  gentlemen?”  demanded  Redding.  “Are 
they  friends  of  yours  ? Why  do  they  not  take  their  seats  inside, 
like  other  people?” 

“I  suppose  they  can  please  themselves,”  retorted  Rambury. 
Something  had  given  him  overweening  courage.  There  was 
a sneer  in  his  tone,  a triumphant  glitter  in  his  eye. 

For  four  or  five  seconds,  Edward  Redding  stood  crushed. 
Again  and  again  during  these  headlong  days,  Coggin  had  sug- 
gested that  the  enemy  might  make  a desperate  sortie,  of  dev- 
ilish cleverness  and  impudence,  at  the  last  moment ; but  Red- 
ding, flushed  with  his  Napoleonic  sequence  of  easy  victories, 
had  scouted  the  thought.  At  the  back  of  his  over-busy  brain 
had  lurked  the  fear  that  if  Venn-Venning  could  be  terrorized 
once  he  could  be  terrorized  twice,  that  if  one  party  could 
send  an  emissary  to  Boulogne  so  could  the  other,  and  that 
Coggin  and  he  might  easily  find  themselves  in  the  lock-up  on 
a well-supported  charge  of  blackmail;  but  Edward  had  not 
allowed  these  possibilities  to  come  to  the  front  of  his  mind. 
Suddenly,  however,  he  beheld  them,  grinning  at  him  like 
demons. 

If  he  had  quailed  for  six  seconds  instead  of  four  or  five, 
Edward  Redding  would  have  been  lost.  In  the  nick  of  time  he 
recaptured  his  wits  and  his  will.  He  saw  Albert  Rambury 
turn  to  the  strangers  and  make  a sign;  but  before  they  could 
act  upon  it,  Coggin ’s  champion  struck  like  a flash  of  lightning. 
Butting  like  a ram  at  his  adversary  he  simply  shot  him  through 
the  door  into  the  hall,  as  a croquet-player  smites  a ball  through 
a hoop.  Then,  dashing  after  him,  he  gripped  Rambury ’s 
arm  and  dragged  him  up  the  fairway.  A roar  of  delight  broke 


THE  DELIVERER 


137 


from  the  people.  Fond  anecdotes  concerning  Edward's  ex- 
uberance had  been  circulating  all  day  in  Bulford ; and,  except- 
ing a few  very  staid  people,  everybody  was  delighted  at  what 
they  took  to  be  a charming  prank.  That  the  miserly  Ram- 
bury  had  subscribed  five  hundred  pounds  was  astounding ; and 
here,  so  they  thought,  was  this  amazing  young  Redding  de- 
liberately crumpling  up  the  Rambury  starchiness  as  an  ex- 
ample to  all  Bulford  of  heartiness  and  good  fellowship. 

At  the  foot  of  the  platform  stairs  Edward  halted;  but  he 
did  not  cease  to  grip  his  man’s  thin  arm.  The  applause  be- 
came thunderous ; for,  of  these  two  young  gentlemen,  was  not 
one  the  promoter  of  the  testimonial  and  the  other  the  principal 
contributor  ? So  completely  had  Redding  regained  ascendancy 
that  he  was  able  to  smile  radiantly,  as  if  he  and  Rambury 
were  the  greatest  friends,  while,  under  cover  of  the  noise  he 
said : 

“This  is  your  last  chance.  As  soon  as  we  have  mounted 
the  platform  you  will  scribble  a note  to  those  hired  black- 
guards, telling  them  to  leave  this  Town  Hall  instantly.  You 
will  shew  the  note  to  me — and  send  it  through  me.  When  you 
rise  to  speak  you  will  say  what  has  been  agreed  without  omit- 
ting or  adding  or  varying  one  syllable.  Fail  in  one  jot  or 
tittle  of  all  this  . . . and  you  will  have  yourself  to  blame  for 
what  happens.” 

“I  am  my  own  master,”  Rambury  answered. 

“Make  no  mistake,”  said  Redding.  “Here  is  your  master, 
just  coming  into  sight.” 

Rambury  glanced  up  and  saw  Coggin  advancing  shyly  from 
a narrow  doorway  at  the  rear  of  the  platform.  The  hero  of 
the  hour,  in  a new  jacket-suit,  made  a strong  contrast  with  the 
chairman  and  his  supporters,  who  were  all  wearing  frock- 
coats  and  light  waistcoats;  but  his  clothes  were  well  cut  and 
his  pale  face  was  certainly  not  the  most  plebeian  in  the  hall. 
A tremendous  uproar  broke  out  on  his  appearance ; indeed  it 


138 


THE  HARE 


was  a marvel  that  the  gallery  did  not  collapse  bodily  under  the 
stamping  of  big  feet  and  the  rapping  of  thick  sticks.  The 
cheering  was  enormous.  The  general  high  spirits  and  the  sud- 
den popularity  of  Coggin  accounted  for  most  of  the  noise; 
but  it  was  swelled  by  the  acclamations  of  a few  persons  who 
had  been  intensely  jealous  of  Coggin  and  of  his  successes  in 
business.  In  the  shouts  of  these  individuals  there  was  a note  of 
“Good  riddance”;  but  nobody  knew  it,  not  even  themselves. 
To  the  best  of  its  belief,  Bulford  was  paying  with  whole  heart 
and  loud  voice  all  its  long  arrears  of  homage  to  the  depart- 
ing genius  Harry  Coggin. 

Meanwhile  Edward  Redding  had  thrust  a pencil  and  a note- 
book into  Albert  Rambury’s  hand.  “Be  quick,”  he  said. 
“Write  these  words:  ‘Please  quit  the  building  at  once . 1 
have  changed  my  mind.9  Quick.  I won’t  wait!” 

If  Rambury  had  been  standing  in  his  own  office  or  in  any 
other  ordinary  environment  he  would  have  measured  his 
will-power  and  his  brains  against  Redding’s.  But  his  cold 
and  crafty  spirit  was  fighting  for  breath  in  this  ardent  and 
generous  atmosphere;  and,  with  the  ovation  to  Coggin  still 
shaking  the  old  rafters  of  the  hall,  he  broke  and  surrendered. 
In  his  unmistakable  hand- writing  he  wrote  the  prescribed 
words  and  tailed  them  off  with  his  arrogant  signature. 

Almost  unnoticed,  Redding  sped  back  to  the  vestibule.  The 
group  of  black-coated  strangers  had  knit  together  again,  buz- 
zing and  jerking,  like  horrid  carrion  flies  cluthering  on  some- 
thing foul.  They  fell  apart  once  more  as  Redding  burst  among 
them. 

“Who  is  in  charge  of  this  tomfoolery?”  he  demanded. 
“Who  is  the  foreman,  ganger,  robber-chief,  head  bottle-washer, 
or  whatever  you  call  him?  Hi,  you  there,  with  the  bum- 
bailiff’s  nose  . . . are  you  the  manager?  You  are.  Then 
read  this  . . . And  if  you  vre  not  outside  in  one  minute  ...” 

The  strangers,  who  looked  like  a scratch  crew  of  solicitors7 


THE  DELIVERER 


139 


clerks,  men-in-possession  and  undertakers’  assistants,  were 
evidently  overjoyed.  They  had  been  led  to  expect  some  easy 
job,  and  the  enthusiasm  inside  the  hall  had  already  terrified 
them.  Suddenly,  however,  gloom  fell  damply  on  them. 

“What  about  our  money?”  they  asked,  with  one  voice. 

“ Go  to  Mr.  Rambury ’s  office  in  the  morning,  ’ ’ Redding  an- 
swered. “He  is  a rich  man.  For  instance,  he ’s  giving  five 
hundred  pounds  to  my  friend  Mr.  Coggin  in  whose  honor 
this  meeting  is  being  held.  But  time ’s  up.  Here ’s  half-a- 
crown  for  beer.  Out!” 

They  obeyed,  gurgling  with  joy.  Redding  watched  through 
a window  until  the  last  of  them  had  been  swallowed  up  in  “The 
George  and  Dragon”  opposite  the  Town  Hall:  then  he  hurried 
back  to  his  great  duty.  Sir  George  Batwood  had  just  finished 
a brief  opening  speech,  and  Edward  took  advantage  of  the 
applause  to  slip  quietly  into  his  own  seat  on  the  platform. 

The  next  item  of  business  was  a statement  by  the  Treasurer, 
a young  architect  named  Brand,  who  had  worked  like  a horse 
under  Redding’s  direction.  As  Mr.  Brand  had  a cheerful 
voice  and  a clear,  rapid  delivery,  his  fusillade  of  names  and 
figures  rattled  pleasantly  on  the  thousand  ears  of  the  audience. 
Instead  of  arranging  the  subscribers’  names  according  to  the 
amount  of  their  donations,  he  read  out  an  alphabetical  list. 
Thus  it  came  about  that  his  first  announcement  was: 

“Miss  Tabitha  Angell,  one  shilling.” 

The  already  remarkable  friendliness  and  good  temper  of 
the  meeting  rose  instantly  to  blood-heat.  Bulford’s  oldest  in- 
habitants could  not  recall  a time  when  Miss  “Tabby”  Angell 
was  not  to  be  seen  in  the  streets  of  their  town  bestowing  pep- 
permint bulls ’-eyes  on  school  children  or  hunting  up  homes  for 
new-born  kittens  under  sentence  of  death.  Even  the  pom- 
pous Alderman  Thatcher,  who  counted  on  filling  the  mayoral 
chair  before  the  year  was  out,  remembered  certain  bulls.’-eyes 
with  which  Miss  Tabby  had  consoled  him  after  a thrashing  at 


140 


THE  HARE 


school,  and  his  long  chin  relaxed.  For  a moment,  he  and 
many  others  could  have  sworn  that  the  hall  reeked  of  pepper- 
mint. 

Mr.  Brand  held  on  his  course.  Every  name,  every  guinea, 
every  half-crown  evoked  some  kind  of  applause.  Most  of  it 
was  no  more  than  a polite  murmur  from  a few  friends  of  the 
subscriber;  and  through  these  mere  ripples  Mr.  Brand  tore 
briskly  along,  like  a bark  under  full  sail  cutting  crisply  through 
a summer  sea.  Now  and  again,  however,  some  popular 
item,  such  as  Lord  Bulcaster’s  fifty  guineas,  was  the  signal 
for  a tidal  wave  of  delight ; and  then  he  was  forced  to  put  his 
whole  strength  to  the  helm  and  to  smash  through,  head  on, 
his  big  voice  still  ringing  through  the  storm. 

“Mr.  Ephraim  Rabbage,  sixpence,’ ’ sang  Mr.  Brand;  and 
straightway  the  young  and  giddy  among  his  listeners  went 
wild  with  delight.  “Grubby  Gaffer  Rabbage,”  as  he  was 
profanely  called  in  this  nick-name  loving  town,  had  never  be- 
fore been  known  to  give  away  a penny.  It  sharpened  the  zest 
of  the  moment  when  the  audience  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Rab- 
bage in  person.  He  had  come  early  and  secured  a front  seat 
so  as  to  make  sure  that  his  munificence  had  not  miscarried 
through  anybody’s  carelessness  or  dishonesty.  So  turbulent 
was  the  applause  that  even  Mr.  Brand’s  voice  was  drowned 
as  he  cried  out : 

“Mr.  Albert  Rambury,  five  hundred  pounds.” 

The  more  serious  citizens  snapped  “Order,  order,”  and  Sir 
George  Batwood  rapped  the  table  with  an  ivory  hammer. 
Then,  through  a full  dull  half-minute,  Mr.  Rambury  received 
his  meed  of  respectful,  unexcited  praise.  Edward  Redding 
scrutinized  the  faces  before  him  and  he  saw  that,  while  many 
hands  were  being  decorously  smacked  together,  a few  lips 
were  curling  ironically,  a few  eyebrows  were  arching,  a few 
elbows  were  discreetly  nudging  a few  ribs.  He  turned  to  look 
at  Rambury,  and  knew  in  a moment  that  all  danger  of  a 


THE  DELIVERER 


141 


counter-stroke  was  past.  The  donor  of  the  five  hundred 
pounds  had  decided  that,  as  his  money  was  gone  beyond  re- 
call, he  would  at  least  have  credit  in  Bulford  for  princely  gen- 
erosity. Smiling  affably,  he  acknowledged  the  plaudits  with 
an  occasional  slight  deflection  of  the  head,  as  if  to  say:  “It 
has  been  the  greatest  happiness  of  my  life  to  give  five  hundred 
pounds  to  so  admirable  a young  man.” 

“I  call  on  an  old  school-fellow  of  mine,  the  son  of  our 
former  Rector,  to  speak,”  said  Sir  George,  as  Mr.  Brand  sat 
down.  “But  before  he  rises,  let  me  beg  that  he  and  the  other 
speakers  may  be  heard  without  excessive  applause.  Mr.  Cog- 
gin  is  leaving  Bulford  to-night  and  our  time  is  short.  Mr. 
Edward  Redding.” 

Redding  got  up  nervously.  He  was  without  experience  of 
public  speaking,  and  the  intent  silence  scared  him.  Fortu- 
nately, however,  he  had  committed  to  memory  his  opening 
sentences,  and  the  first  of  them  fitted  perfectly  into  what  the 
chairman  had  just  said.  He  began: 

4 4 Sir  George,  I am  proud  to  have  been,  for  two  years,  your 
school-fellow.  And  I am  proud  to  have  been  the  school-fellow, 
though  it  was  only  for  two  weeks,  of  Mr.  Henry  Coggin.  I 
learned  during  those  two  short  weeks  to  wonder  at  his  extraor- 
dinary ability  and  industry,  at  his  modesty,  at  his  grit  and 
pluck. 

“Returning  to  this  fine  old  town  after  twelve  years  of 
absence,  I found  Mr.  Coggin  more  than  fulfilling  my  father’s 
prophecies  concerning  him.  I see  many  old  boys  of  Bulford 
School  here  this  evening.  Have  we  all  kept  up  our  Latin? 
I ’m  afraid  not.  Yet  Mr.  Coggin  has  kept  up  his,  in  spite  of 
having  to  work  early  and  late  at  a successful  and  growing  and 
difficult  business.  More  than  that;  he  has  become  proficient 
in  French  and  German  and  Italian,  and  is  also  a fine  performer 
on  the  organ  and  on  the  pianoforte  as  well  as  a serious  com- 
poser of  highly  original  music. 


142 


THE  HARE 


“It  happened  that,  at  the  moment  of  my  arrival,  Mr. 
Coggin  was  enduring  grievous  annoyance  and  anxiety,  through 
a business  occurrence.  Pardon  my  saying  that  even  in  Bulford 
everybody  is  not  a model  of  charity,  and  it  was  therefore  not 
surprising  that  a few  idle  or  malicious  people  began  to  speak 
evil  of  Mr.  Coggin.  I will  call  a spade  a spade.  It  was  said 
that  my  friend  had  been  less  than  honorable  when  selling  cer- 
tain oil-paintings.  His  vindication  has  been  triumphant  and 
complete.  And  here  is  the  proof  of  what  I say.  The  one 
man  in  all  Bulford  who  knew  most  about  those  oil-paintings — 
the  man  who  was  for  a time  most  violently  antagonistic  to 
Mr.  Coggin — that  man  is  now  so  convinced  of  Mr.  Coggin ’s 
perfect  integrity  that  he  has  come  here  to-night  to  speak  to 
you.  Meanwhile  he  has  subscribed  no  less  than  five  hundred 
pounds.  I refer  of  course  to  Mr.  Albert  Rambury.” 

When  some  punctilious  cheering  had  ceased,  Redding  went 
on: 

“Happily,  good  has  come  out  of  evil.  His  anxieties  and 
difficulties  have  taught  Mr.  Coggin  that  he  cannot  pursue 
several  careers  at  one  and  the  same  time,  and  that  he  must 
make  a choice.  He  has  endeavored  to  be  a go-ahead  man  of 
business,  an  organist,  a composer,  a classical  scholar,  a collector 
of  antiques,  and  a modern  linguist  all  at  once.  The  man  who 
tries  to  do  everything  ends  by  doing  nothing.  Mr.  Coggin  has 
decided,  as  his  friends  knew  he  would,  in  favor  of  music. 
And  of  course  this  means  his  leaving  the  town.  There  is  no 
disrespect  to  Bulford  in  my  remarking  that  although  you 
have  many  excellent  musicians  in  your  midst,  there  are  other 
and  bigger  worlds  for  a young  composer  to  conquer.  Mr. 
Coggin  leaves  Bulford  to-night. 

“Sir  George,  you  remember  that  we  used  to  call  Mr.  Cog- 
gin ‘Slogger’  Qoggin.  In  spite  of  that  ferocious  name,  he 
is  very  shy;  and  therefore  he  has  begged  me  to  say  one  or 
two  things  on  his  behalf.  First,  it  goes  without  saying  that 


THE  DELIVERER 


143 


he  thanks  you  all  from  a full  heart  for  your  unexpected  and 
magnificent  liberality,  and  for  your  great  kindness  in  crowding 
here  on  a warm  J une  evening  to  give  him  such  a splendid  fare- 
well and  send-olf. 

4 ‘Mr.  Coggin,  however,  will  not  be  shaken  from  the  convic- 
tion that  your  generosity  is  widely  out  of  proportion  to  his 
deserts ; and  he  declines  positively  to  carry  away  from  Bulford 
this  noble  sum  which  you  have  subscribed.  I am  told  that, 
except  for  the  new  Infirmary,  no  such  subscription  has  ever 
been  raised  in  Bulford  before.  My  friend  is  persuaded  that 
Mr.  Rambury ’s  large  gift  has  put  the  whole  affair  on  too  large 
a scale,  and  he  refuses  to  take  advantage  of  such  a state  of 
things.  Accordingly,  he  instructs  me  in  the  most  peremptory 
way  to  announce  that  he  will  leave  one  thousand  pounds  be- 
hind him.” 

Fully  a hundred  voices  cried  “No,  no”;  but  they  were 
soon  borne  down  by  the  hip-hoorays  of  the  majority,  and  by 
the  Pig  Laners’  clamor  up  on  high.  Within  thirty  seconds 
the  whole  audience  seemed  to  be  standing  on  the  benches, 
cheering  itself  hoarse.  Sir  George  secured  silence  at  last,  and 
Redding  added : 

“ ‘Slogger’  Coggin — I ’m  tired  of  calling  him  Mister  and 
I know  he  won’t  mind — gives  one  hundred  pounds  to  Bulford 
Grammar  School  for  the  legal  expenses  of  making  the  Robson 
Scholarship  open  to  every  boy  in  the  town.  He  bids  me  say 
that  although  he  was  Robson  Scholar  for  a fortnight  only,  he 
will  never  cease  to  think  of  the  school.  I understand  that  the 
Samuel  Robson  money  has  been  accumulating  for  twelve  years 
and  that  no  candidate  has  come  forward  in  that  time.  With 
good-will  all  round  the  Scholarship  should  soon  be  freed. 

“Further,  lie  gives  one  hundred  pounds  to  the  school  to 
endow  an  annual  prize  for  Musical  History  and  Theory.  In 
honor  of  Mr.  Daplyn,  so  long  St.  Michael’s  organist,  to  whom 
Mr.  Coggin  owes  most  of  his  education  in  music,  he  wishes 


144* 


THE  HARE 


this  little  foundation  to  be  called  the  Daplyn  Prize.  Further, 
he  has  most  respectfully  begged  the  headmaster  to  give  the  boys 
an  extra  halfdioliday  on  the  first  convenient  day,  and  this 
request  has  been  granted. 

“Next,  our  friend  gives  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  for 
the  erection  of  a drinking-fountain  at  the  point  where  Straight- 
mile  Road  joins  East  Street.  In  my  school-days  we  knew  it 
as  Dusty  Corner,  but  I ’m  told  you  now  call  it  Cobden  Cres- 
cent. Mr.  Coggin  has  often  pitied  the  poor  brutes  who  enter 
Bulford  that  way.  I understand  from  His  Worship  the 
Mayor  that  this  gift  will  be  accepted.  There  is  to  be  no  in- 
scription beyond  the  initials  ‘H.  C.,’  and  no  ornament  except 
a frieze  of  horses  and  sheep  and  dogs  and  cattle  drinking  from 
a running  brook.  As  our  chairman,  Sir  George  Batwood, 
will  give  the  stone  from  his  famous  quarry  at  Marley,  and 
as  our  treasurer,  Mr.  Brand,  will  design  and  supervise  the 
wrork  without  fee  or  reward,  Bulford  ought  to  have  a fountain 
to  be  proud  of. 

“As  a poor  boy,  Slogger  Coggin  would  have  found  good 
books  out  of  his  reach  if  his  father  had  not  been  in  a business 
which  brought  him  second-hand  volumes  now  and  then.  Per- 
haps there  are  clever  boys  and  youths  in  Bulford  to-day  who 
would  study  if  they  could.  Therefore  Mr.  Coggin  offers  to 
the  town  a selection  of  books,  some  shelves,  desks  and  stools,  and 
a sum  of  five  hundred  pounds.  He  earnestly  hopes  that  some- 
body with  a cheerful  and  airy  room  to  spare  will  lend  it  for 
the  purpose  of  a small  library,  and  that  the  shelves  will  soon 
overflow  with  good  books.  Further,  although  he  fears  some 
good  people  may  look  on  him  as  a revolutionary,  he  would  hail 
with  keen  delight  the  news  that  on  one  or  two  days  a week  the 
library  should  be  reserved  for  the  gentler  sex,  with  a rota  of 
Bulford ’s  educated  ladies  taking  turns  as  librarians. 

“I  spoke  of  a thousand  pounds,  and  we  have  disposed  of  nine 
hundred.  Slogger  Coggin  wishes  the  remaining  cash  to  be 


THE  DELIVERER 


145 


spent  in  arranging  a midsummer  riverside  picnic  for  the  chil- 
dren of  the  town.  He  would  be  supremely  happy  if  he  could 
hope  that  on  this  occasion  the  boys  and  girls  of  all  classes  and 
of  all  religious  denominations  would  meet  at  the  picnic,  as 
was  the  custom  hundreds  of  years  ago  in  Bulford  on  St.  John’s 
Day.  But  his  gift  to  the  children  is  made  without  conditions. 
That  is  all  I have  to  say  on  Mr.  Coggin’s  behalf.  Speaking  for 
myself,  I thank  you  with  my  whole  heart.  ’ 9 

Sir  George  Batwood  cut  short  the  cheering  and  stamping  by 
calling  out  in  a loud  voice : ‘ ‘ Silence,  please ! I have  asked 

Mr.  Coggin  to  oblige  us  with  a short  performance  on  the  organ. 
It  seems  that  when  he  last  proposed  to  play  his  compositions 
in  public  he  was  not  able  to  do  so.  Mr.  Coggin.” 

Built  across  the  back  of  the  platform  was  a small  but  well- 
balanced  organ  which  was  used  every  Christmas  for  Bulford ’s 
regulation  performance  of  “The  Messiah,”  and  for  occasional 
oratorios  and  sacred  concerts  at  other  times.  Coggin  had 
mounted  the  bench  while  Sir  George  was  speaking,  and  he  im- 
mediately began  his  Short  Overture  in  E Minor.  Up  to  the 
coda  this  work  conformed  to  the  Lullian  model.  The  per- 
former gave  out  the  large  and  mysterious  Adagio  in  so  mas- 
sive a style  that  the  hearer  felt  as  if  he  were  gazing  rather 
than  listening — gazing  from  a slowly  moving  chariot  at  wall 
after  wall,  tower  after  tower,  of  a granite  castle  rooted  in  an 
everlasting  hill.  The  Adagio  came  to  a sturdy  end ; not  tap- 
ering away  like  a graceful  spire  but  bulking  solidly  like  a 
donjon-keep.  Coggin  attacked  the  Allegro.  In  a moment 
the  listener  was  transported  from  the  giant’s  castle  into  the 
midst  of  an  enchanted  wood.  The  thousands  of  staccato  demi- 
semiquavers  seemed  to  sting  the  check  deliciously,  like  an  April 
shower.  It  was  as  if  the  elves  of  the  greenwood  were  pelting 
the  green  buds  and  the  curly  leaves  and  the  shy  flowers  with 
pellets  of  pure  silver.  Barely  a dozen  people  in  the  audi- 
ence knew  that  this  dappled,  pattering,  flickering  music  was  a 


146 


THE  HARE 


fugue ; for  Coggin  had  learned  from  his  beloved  Handel  how 
to  write  fugues  as  limpid  and  sparkling  as  country  dances. 
At  last  the  April  shower  ceased ; and  the  overture  closed  with 
a coda  of  noble  chords,  like  big  milk-white  April  clouds  sail- 
ing gloriously  in  skies  of  purest  blue. 

The  applause  which  followed  was  loud  and  long  and  hearty; 
yet  it  sounded  ragged  and  weak  after  the  huge  trumpetings  of 
the  organ.  Wasting  no  time  Sir  George  called  out:  4 4 Mr. 
Albert  Rambury.” 

When  the  largest  subscriber  rose  to  his  feet  the  hand- 
clapping had  thinned  down  to  a merely  polite  greeting;  be- 
cause Rambury  was  known  to  be  a long  and  dry  speaker.  The 
audience  felt  that  after  the  treasurer’s  engrossing  list,  after 
young  Mr.  Redding’s  exciting  announcements,  and  after 
Coggin’s  rousing  overture,  the  coming  on  of  Mr.  Rambury  was 
like  a compulsory  ration  of  gruel  or  ship’s-biscuit  after  roast 
turkey  and  plum-pudding  and  brandy  sauce.  But,  although 
the  applause  was  short,  it  sufficed  for  Edward  Redding,  who 
stole  to  the  orator’s  side  and  whispered  in  his  ear: 

4 4 Remember.  I ’ve  got  the  manuscript.  You  begin  with 
4 1 have  the  greatest  pleasure’  and  yon  end  with  4 below  his 
deserts’?  Go  ahead.” 

Disdaining  his  prompter,  Albert  Rambury  began  to  speak. 
While  he  kept  exactly  to  the  agreed  text,  he  surprised  and 
delighted  Redding  by  the  cordiality  of  his  manner.  Instead 
of  barking  out  his  praise  of  Coggin  like  a hated  lesson  he 
spoke  it  with  what  seemed  to  be  warmth  and  conviction.  The 
truth  was  that  there  were  some  drops  of  human  blood  in  this 
avaricious  and  ambitious  young  man’s  veins  after  all,  and 
that  for  the  moment  he  abandoned  himself  to  the  prevailing 
generosity.  What  was  more  to  the  point,  he  felt  unspeakable 
relief  at  having  been  stopped  short  in  a most  perilous  attempt 
at  revenge  which  might  have  recoiled  terribly  on  his  own  head. 
Both  Coggin  and  Redding  would  be  out  of  Bulford  in 


THE  DELIVERER  147 

another  hour;  and  even  at  the  awful  price  of  five  hundred 
pounds  he  was  cheaply  rid  of  them. 

“I  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  supporting  you,  Sir  George, 
this  evening, ’ ’ he  said,  ‘ ‘ and  in  paying  my  modest  tribute  to 
the  talents — I may  say  the  genius — of  Mr.  Coggin,  as  well 
as  to  his  invariable  integrity.  Reference  has  been  made  to  a 
recent  misunderstanding  of  a business  nature.  I think  I 
may  claim  to  know  as  much  as  any  man  in  Bulford  about  that 
matter,  and  I say  emphatically  that  I have  never  transacted 
business  with  a more  honorable  man  than  Mr.  Coggin.  My 
contribution  to  the  testimonial  has  been  described  as  a large 
one.  I hope  that  next  time  a fund  is  opened  in  Bulford  I 
shall  not  be  expected  to  subscribe  on  the  same  scale.  Indeed 
I hope  you  will  give  me  a rest  for  a long  time,  seeing  that  I 
have  made  a very  great  effort  to  give  this  testimonial  a good 
start.  I call  it  a great  effort,  but  I do  not  regret  it.  This 
sum  of  two  thousand  three  hundred  and  sixty-seven  pounds 
which  has  been  collected  surprises  us  all ; but  in  handing  it  to 
Mr.  Coggin  we  all  feel  that,  large  as  it  is,  our  testimonial  is 
still  below  his  deserts.’ 9 

Mr.  Rambury  had  often  concluded  a speech,  well  pleased 
with  himself ; but  this  was  the  first  time  that  an  audience  had 
been  equally  pleased  with  Mr.  Rambury.  Somebody  called 
out  “ Three  cheers  for  Bertie  Rambury,”  and  the  cheers  were 
accorded  vociferously.  The  largest  subscriber  sat  down  beam- 
ing. He  even  turned  his  head  and  wagged  a friendly  nod 
towards  Coggin.  He  had  entered  the  hall  determined  to  be 
Mr.  Albert  ; and  now  he  was  more  than  content  to  be  Bertie. 

Mr.  Woodley  was  the  next  speaker.  Edward  Redding  had 
decided  that  the  solicitor’s  penitence  was  genuine,  and  that 
it  would  be  unwise  to  pin  him  down  to  a speech  prepared 
beforehand.  Redding  therefore  was  as  much  touched  as  the 
rest  of  the  people  when  Mr.  Woodley  said: 

“Open  confession  is  good  for  the  soul.  I stand  here  in  a 


148 


THE  HAKE 


white  sheet.  You  all  know  that  I am  a solicitor,  like  my 
father  before  me.  Young  Mr.  Coggin  came  to  me  as  a client. 
I charged  him  as  much  as  anybody  else,  and  took  his  money ; 
but  I did  not  do  my  whole  duty  by  him.  To  his  face  I was 
polite  and  painstaking;  but  in  my  heart  I was  so  mean  and 
ignorant  as  to  despise  him  because  he  is  a self-made  and  self- 
taught  young  man,  the  son  of  a marine-store  dealer.  Mr. 
Coggin  has  never  been  ashamed  of  his  beginnings,  so  I know 
he  will  not  mind  what  I am  saying.  I ought  to  have  been 
proud  to  act  for  such  a man,  but  I was  a snob.  In  my  office 
the  most  prominent  sight  is  a pile  of  black  boxes  lettered  with 
the  names  of  titled  and  rich  people,  although  I have  not  done 
business  for  some  of  those  clients  these  last  ten  years.  I sup- 
pose I should  have  been  ashamed  to  have  a black  box  lettered 
‘Mr.  Henry  Coggin.’  I am  a born  Conservative  and  I hope 
to  die  one;  but  there  has  been  too  much  of  this  spirit  in 
Bulford. 

“Let  nobody  praise  me  for  subscribing  one  hundred 
guineas.  I am  merely  handing  back  to  Mr.  Coggin  his  own 
money,  which  I did  not  fully  and  fairly  earn.  This  is  jus- 
tice, not  generosity.  I have  felt  better  ever  since  I decided 
to  impose  on  myself  the  humiliation  of  speaking  as  I am 
speaking  now.  Pray  don’t  think  that  I am  preaching  to  you 
or  that  I am  presuming  to  take  the  place  of  any  man’s  con- 
science ; but  if  anybody  has  done  Mr.  Coggin  a wrong  let  him, 
with  the  cbbirman’s  permission,  undo  it  now  and  make  the 
testimonial  still  bigger.” 

Mr.  Woodley  sat  down  so  suddenly  that  everybody  was 
startled.  Furthermore,  his  words  had  fairly  taken  away  the 
breath  of  the  listeners.  Some  of  the  notables  on  the  plat- 
form were  visibly  shocked  and  pained.  For  a few  seconds 
Sir  George  Batwood  lost  his  head.  He  turned  awkwardly 
to  Edward  Redding  for  a,  cue ; but  before  help  could  be  given 


THE  DELIVERER 


14*9 

a strange  medley  of  sounds  rose  up  from  the  audience.  The 
gallery  had  begun  to  applaud,  while  some  persons  in  the  body 
of  the  hall  were  hissing  out  “Hush”  or  crying  “Order,  or- 
der ! ” A'  tall  thin  man  had  risen  upright,  near  the  front. 
Everybody  knew  him ; for  Mr.  Ambrose  Mawby  was  not  only 
the  most  important  solicitor  in  the  county  but  also  one  of 
Bulford’s  wealthiest  citizens. 

“Mr.  Chairman,”  he  said,  speaking  rather  curtly,  as  if 
against  his  will.  “I  cannot  be  silent  after  Mr.  Woodley’s 
challenge.  In  the  affair  at  which  he  has  just  hinted,  my  firm 
acted  against  Mr.  Coggin.  I had  no  personal  knowledge  of 
the  dispute  at  the  time,  and  had  heard  nothing  of  it  until 
this  testimonial  was  mooted.  My  firm  acted  on  a client’s 
instructions  and  cannot  fairly  be  blamed.  At  the  same  time 
I do  not  care  about  retaining  the  rather  large  fees  which  came 
to  us,  out  of  Mr.  Coggin ’s  pocket,  in  circumstances  which 
entitle  him  to  sympathy.  I subscribed  only  a guinea  to  this 
testimonial.  I now  make  it  a hundred,,  and  I wish  Mr.  Cog- 
gin success.” 

The  meeting  had  taken  a turn  which  called  for  a tactful  and 
experienced  chairman.  Puffer  Batwood’s  tact  was  small  and 
his  experience  in  ruling  meetings  was  limited  to  a couple  of 
parochial  committees.  While  he  was  wondering  what  to  do 
the  helm  was  jerked  out  of  his  hands.  A woman’s  shrill  voice 
shrieked  from  the  gallery: 

“I  done  young  Coggin  outer  ’arf-a-crown,  a year  ago  come 
Midsummer,  an’  I ’m  goin’  to  pay  it  back  into  this  ’ere 
testymonium.  ’ ’ 

A jovial  uproar  followed.  Many  voices  demanded  of  a 
certain  Bill  Haycocks  if  he  was  “goin’  to  fork  out  them  two 
bob.”  When  a red-bearded  fat  man,  as  broad  as  he  was 
long,  rose  indignantly  from  the  front  row  of  the  gallery  and 
shoved  his  way  out  towards  the  door  at  the  back  it  became 


150 


THE  HARE 


evident  that  this  was  Mr.  Haycocks  himself,  ne  departed 
amidst  good-natured  volleys  of  derision  with  the  florin  still 
in  his  pocket  and  on  his  conscience. 

Meanwhile  little  notes  were  being  passed  up  to  the  platform, 
variously  addressed  to  44 young  Mr.  Redding/'  4 4 Redding,  Es- 
quire/' and  even  4 4 Sir  Edward  Redding."  The  first  note 
ran: — 

1 still  think  H.  C.  had  himself  to  blame,  but  here  is  that 
five  pounds.  Don’t  announce  this. — W.  Barwell. 

The  second:  I give  sixteen  pounds  more.  Don’t  put  down 
my  name:  only  initials . — Michael  Goff. 

The  third:  I ask  Mr.  Coggin’s  forgiveness . The  thirty 
pounds  shall  be  paid  by  instalments.  This  to  be  kept  private. 
Somebody  who  is  on  the  platform  to-night  led  me  to  do  it. — 
H.  S.  Chippenden. 

There  were  six  or  seven  such  notes  in  all,  enclosing  or 
promising  ninety-eight  pounds.  The  audience,  having 
promptly  guessed  the  nature  of  these  missives,  became  more 
and  more  vociferous,  until  the  meeting  threatened  to  lose  every 
shred  of  dignity.  A strong  hand  was  needed;  and  it  ap- 
peared. The  Mayor,  a genial  and  able  man  who  had  learned 
how  to  handle  crowds  when  standing  for  Parliament  as  the 
candidate  of  the  unpopular  side,  moved  up  to  Sir  George 
Batwood  and  said: 

44The  meeting  is  getting  out  of  hand.  You  have  kindly 
put  me  down  in  the  program  to  make  the  presentation.  I 
suggest  your  calling  on  me  at  once." 

4 4 Silence  for  His  Worship  the  Mayor,"  cried  the  more  seri- 
ous citizens.  There  was  a momentary  hush;  and  then  the 
Mayor's  masterful  but  hearty  voice  filled  the  hall,  ending 
all  the  ferment. 

4 4 Some  years  ago,"  he  said,  4 4 years  before  I had  heard  of 


THE  DELIVERER 


151 


Mr.  Coggin  ’s  talents,  I made  the  acquaintance,  on  a holiday, 
of  a great  musical  composer.  That  is  to  say,  he  always  spoke 
of  himself  as  a great  musical  composer;  and  I suppose  he 
ought  to  have  known.  I found  him  a dirty,  drunken,  dis- 
honest, conceited,  selfish,  long-haired  prig;  and  his  composi- 
tions were  rubbish.  Throughout  this  meeting  I have  been 
thinking  of  the  contrast.  There  are  many  people  now-a-days 
who  tell  us  that  poets,  painters,  actors,  sculptors,  and  musicians 
are  a law  unto  themselves,  and  that  it  is  mere  vulgarity  to 
ask  that  they  should  conform  to  the  same  common  codes  of 
morality  and  honor.  To-night,  as  Mr.  Coggin  played  the 
organ  so  grandly,  I said  to  myself : ‘ Bulf ord  ought  to  be  sad. 
We  are  losing  not  only  a fine  musician,  a composer  of  genius, 
but  also  a young  man  who  has  set  a magnificent  example  to 
every  one  of  us  in  hard  work,  in  honorable  dealing,  in  sobriety, 
and,  above  all,  in  generosity. * On  behalf  of  the  town  I accept 
with  gratitude  his  thousand  pounds.  But  it  is  within  my 
knowledge,  my  recent  knowledge,  that  for  years  he  has  been 
doing  good  by  stealth,  and  that  he  would  4 blush  to  find  it 
fame.’  When  he  couldn’t  afford  it,  I find  he  has  given  his 
scanty  savings  ...” 

As  if  a lighted  match  had  been  dropped  into  a basket  of 
Chinese  crackers,  the  gallery  rattled,  and  crackled  back: 

“That ’s  true,  your  Worship.  He  giv’  my  kids  a Chriss- 
muss  tree ! 9 9 

“It ’s  the  poor  as  ’elps  the  poor,  my  Worship.” 

“Coggin  bailed  me  out  twice,  before  the  beak.” 

“ ’e  come  and  read  books  to  me  ole  father.” 

“He  jumped  into  the  canal  when  I was  nearly  drownded.” 

“Harry  Coggin  paid  for  poor  Bob  Brown’s  go-cart.” 

“I  know,  I know,”  thundered  the  Mayor,  spreading  out  his 
hands  as  if  to  push  back  the  noise.  “I  could  tell  you  more 
than  you  could  tell  me.  But  I beg  you  be  silent.  Our  hour  is 
nearly  up.  Time  and  tide  and  the  7.55  wait  for  po  man. 


152 


THE  HARE 


The  blunt  truth  is  that  we  are  all  making  an  immense  fuss 
over  Mr.  Coggin  to-night,  but  we  none  of  us  gave  him  much 
help  or  encouragement  when  he  wanted  it  most.  I am  as 
much  to  blame  as  anybody.  There  was  a genius  in  the  town 
and  I,  as  Mayor  of  Bulford,  never  troubled  to  find  it  out. 

“To  make  amends,  I ask  you  all  to  accompany  Mr.  Coggin 
to  the  station.  Let  there  be  no  horseplay,  but  let  us  give  him 
an  enthusiastic  yet  orderly  send-off,  which  shall  not  be  below 
the  dignity  of  our  ancient  town.  Let  his  last  impression  be  of 
Bulford  at  its  best. 

“I  have  one  duty  more.”  Here  the  Mayor  took  two  slips 
of  paper  from  Mr.  Brand.  “The  testimonial,  up  to  this  mo- 
ment, amounts  to  two  thousand,  seven  hundred  pounds,  four 
shillings.  The  treasurer  having  deducted  one  thousand 
pounds,  I hand  Mr.  Harry  Coggin  a check  for  one  thousand, 
seven  hundred  pounds,  four  shillings.  ’ ’ 

It  was  not  until  the  Mayor  stood  on  the  oak  table,  holding 
out  his  watch  and  pointing  to  the  dial  with  comical  gestures 
of  despair  that  the  throat-rending,  ear-shattering  cheers  died 
down.  Not  even  at  the  declaration  of  the  poll  after  a fiercely 
fought  election  had  Bulford  men  and  women  raised  so  enor- 
mous a noise. 

“Up  with  him,”  bellowed  somebody. 

In  a moment  the  Mayor  was  lifted  down  and  Coggin  was 
hoisted  upon  the  table.  Amidst  a deep  hush  he  beheld  the 
beaming,  eager  faces.  For  a wThole  hour  that  morning,  Ed- 
ward Redding  had  sat  coaching  him  in  a a speech  of  thanks 
which,  though  five  minutes  would  have  sufficed  for  its  delivery, 
bristled  with  telling  points.  But  in  that  moment  of  aw'ful 
silence  Harry’s  memory  snapped;  and,  like  a broken  chain 
flashing  through  the  hawse-holes  of  a ship  in  an  unfathom- 
able fiord,  the  speech  sank  with  hardly  a splash  into  the 
abyss. 

The  conquering  hero  gasped ; stammered ; choked ; lurched. 


THE  DELIVERER  153 

He  might  have  fallen  if  broad  shoulders  had  not  closed  round 
him. 

Edward  Redding  sped  to  the  rescue. 

“You ’ve  stunned  him  with  kindness,”  cried  Redding. 
“He  ’ll  soon  come  round.  But  before  he  begins  to  play 
‘God  Save  the  Queen’  for  us,  I propose  something  which 
will  include  our  votes  of  thanks  to  Sir  George,  and  to  His 
Worship,  and  to  the  Treasurer.  I propose:  ‘Three  cheers  for 
everybody.’  ” 

They  made  it  three  times  three,  and  would  have  trebled  it 
again  if  Harry  Coggin  had  not  blared  out  the  Anthem  with 
every  stop  and  coupler  drawn. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


IT  was  not  the  gathering  in  the  Town  Hall  but  the  pro- 
cession to  the  railway  station  which  had  loomed  biggest 
in  Redding’s  program  for  Coggin’s  last  evening  in  Bul- 
ford. Until  a few  minutes  before  the  meeting  began  he  had 
expected  a somewhat  perfunctory  hour  of  stilted  speech-mak- 
ing, warmed  up  twice  or  thrice  by  a little  excitement  over 
Albert  Rambury’s  huge  subscription  and  by  some  good- 
natured  curiosity  about  Coggin’s  organ-playing.  As  a boy 
Teddie  Redding  had  endured  unspeakable  boredom  in  Bulford 
Town  Hall  when  polysyllabic  clergymen  came  down  from 
London  to  make  charitable  appeals  or  to  deliver  abstract  ora- 
tions; and  therefore  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  cordiality 
and  simplicity  could  ever  gush  forth  from  such  arid  and  flinty 
soil. 

During  the  whole  course  of  the  meeting  Redding’s  lieuten- 
ants had  been  zealously  at  work.  Followed  by  a mysterious 
van  with  a tarpaulin  hood  they  had  knocked  at  every  door  of 
every  house  in  Station  Road.  In  many  an  instance  they  were 
balked ; because  the  head  of  the  house  was  absent  from  home 
and  present  in  the  Town  Hall.  The  little  shops,  however, 
were  all  open,  and,  practically  every  tradesman  in  the  thorough- 
fare readily  accepted  the  bundle  of  flags  and  the  box  of 
Chinese  lanterns  which  the  van  disgorged  by  the  dozen.  Be- 
fore half.-past  seven  had  struck,  Station  Road  had  ceased  to 
be  the  meanest  street  in  Bulford  and  had  been  translated  into 
Latin.  Bunting  flapped  or  clung  everywhere.  Over  and 
above  the  flags  distributed  by  Redding’s  helpers  the  inhabi- 
tants hung  out  sundry  Union  Jacks  and  Royal  Standards 

154 


THE  DELIVERER 


155 


which  they  had  bought  a year  before  for  the  marriage  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  The  setting  sun  would  have  dimmed  the 
glories  of  the  lanterns  if  express  directions  for  hanging  them 
in  the  shadow  had  not  been  given ; but  its  glorious  light  rip- 
ened the  tints  of  the  flags  into  a rich  and  glowing  splendor 
which  Venice  herself  might  have  envied.  Nor  was  cheerful 
sound  lacking.  Every  moment  another  window  was  opened 
sharply  by  some  householder  just  returned  from  the  Town 
Hall.  Every  moment  the  kindly  jabber  of  the  onlookers  grew 
quicker  and  the  shouts  of  excited  youngsters  rose  louder. 

At  as  good  a pace  as  the  throng  would  allow,  the  carriages 
came  grinding  round  the  curve.  Lord  Bulcaster  had  lent  his 
famous  chariot  with  the  dappled  grays,  and  Mrs.  Hilliard  her 
brougham  and  pretty  chestnuts.  In  these  vehicles  and,  in  two 
hired  carriages  rode  the  Mayor,  half-a-dozen  aldermen  and 
councilors,  Mr.  Redding,  and  Mr.  Brand.  Finally,  in  Sir 
George  Batwood’s  carriage,  came  the  baronet  and  his  delicious 
young  consort,  Mrs.  Hilliard,  and  Henry  Coggin.  As  they 
entered  Station  Road  the  narrow  street,  like  a canyon  blazing 
with  tropical  flowers  of  every  hue,  hailed  them  with  a sound 
as  of  plunging,  thundering  cataracts. 

“I  can  guess  your  thoughts  at  this  moment,  Slogger,” 
chuckled  Sir  George.  He  was  in  great  spirits,  and  the  cold- 
ness of  manner  which  his  old  friends  were  beginning  to  resent 
had  been  wholly  thawed  out  of  him  by  the  ardors  of  the  meet- 
ing. To  tell  the  truth,  this  young  gentleman  felt  mightily 
pleased  with  himself,  and  was  already  indulging  hopes  of  a 
public  career. 

“Yes.  I was  thinking  of  the  torchlight  procession  thirteen 
years  ago,”  answered  Coggin  simply.  “I  was  remembering 
how  I slipped  out  of  the  arm-chair  and  went  home  while  Mr. 
Redding’s  father  was  making  a speech.” 

Harry’s  head  was  not  turned.  Knowing  the  fickleness  and 
shallowness  of  Bulford,  and  having  lived  for  a week  behind 


156 


THE  HARE 


the  scenes  with  the  stage-manager,  he  did  not  flatter  himself 
that  this  was  a spontaneous  and  genuine  demonstration.  In- 
deed, if  he  erred  at  all,  it  was  in  underestimating  the  number 
of  his  sincere  admirers  and  well-wishers,  and  in  assuming  that 
the  whole  outburst  had  been  engineered  by  Edward  Redding. 

The  gloomiest  stretch  of  Station  Road  is  at  the  further  end 
where  it  curves  a second,  time  and  runs  due  north.  But,  as 
the  carriages  rumbled  through,  these  last  hundred  yards  were 
like  a magician's  garden.  Paper  lanterns  of  all  shapes  and 
colors  swung  like  tongueless  bells  in  the  lazy  air.  Some  were 
pear-shaped,  some  like  accordeons,  some  as  round  as  the  world ; 
some  amber,  some  grass-green,  some  violet,  some  vermilion. 
In  the  window-boxes,  tiny  many-hued  lamps  beamed  like  fire- 
flies and  glow-worms  amidst  the  dwarf  nasturtiums  and  ger- 
aniums. 

Just  as  Lady  Batwood  and,  Mrs.  Hilliard  were  feeling  that 
they  had  cried  “how  charming"  and  “how  pretty"  rather 
too  often,  a droll  hap  came  to  their  relief.  At  a window 
framed  in  flags  and  twinkling  with  lights  a bustling  mother 
suddenly  held  up  a child  to  see  the  great  ladies  and  the  famous 
Mr.  Coggin.  The  infant,  stung  to  wrath  at  being  plucked 
from  his  cot  and  firmly  believing  that  he  was  about  to  be 
flung  into  the  street,  opened  his  mouth  so  enormously  that  it 
seemed  to  be  much  wider  than  the  window.  His  yell  of  rage, 
when  it  came,  was  lost  in  the  general  hubbub,  but  his  mouth 
seemed  to  grow  every  moment  bigger. 

“By  Jove!"  cried  Sir  George,  a few  moments  later.  “Red- 
ding has  excelled  himself  here.  Hark ! Look ! Bands. 
Torches.  And  banners.  ’ ’ 

Along  the  darker  side  of  the  station  square  were  ranged 
Bulford’s  three  brass-bands,  united  for  the  occasion  under  one 
conductor.  They  occupied  the  long  veranda  which  was  used 
at  ordinary  times  as  a shelter  for  a few  “growler"  cabs  and 
hansoms.  Thirty  torch-bearers  flanked  the  musicians,  right 


THE  DELIVERER 


157 


and  left.  Nearer  to  the  station  buildings  in  the  full  light  of 
the  June  sunset  stood  deputations  from  Bulford’s  societies — 
Foresters,  Hearts  of  Oak,  Ancient  Buffaloes,  and  the  rest. 
Above  them  huge  square  banners  bellied  and  squeaked  on 
their  gilded  poles  in  the  rising  breeze.  As  these  banners  had 
been  painted  in  the  most  frightful  ex  voto  style,  they  made  an 
extraordinary  impression  on  Lady  Batwood,  who  had  never 
seen  the  like  before.  One  of  them,  with  the  legend  4 4 Union 
is  Strength  ” in  silver  letters  on  a sky-blue  ground,  shewed 
two  enclasped  hands.  The  hands  protruded  from  two  stiff 
and  starchy  white  cuffs  which,  in  their  own  turn,  peeped  out 
from  the  coal-black  sleeves  of  two  slop-suits,  amputated  as 
cleanly  as  two  cod’s  heads  on  a fishmonger’s  slab.  Another 
banner  represented  a Forester  or  Ancient  Buffalo  on  an  iron 
bedstead  expiring  in  the  midst  of  medicine-bottles,  while  a 
bearded  Head  Forester  or  Chief  Buffalo  in  a parsonic  frock- 
coat  handed  the  sorrowing  widow  a ten-pound  note.  But  the 
bravest  banner  of  all  was  borne  by  the  smallest  of  the  depu- 
tations. From  a fine  confusion  of  coiled  ropes,  Union  Jacks, 
bales,  guns,  swords,  pruning-hooks,  plow-shares,  and  Bibles, 
the  British  Lion  and  Britannia  shewed  fangs  and  brandished  a 
trident  against  some  invisible  Frenchie  on  the  further  shore 
of  a raging  blue  sea. 

4 4 See,  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes”  burst  out  from  the  im- 
patient musicians  like  a gust  of  red-hot  lava  impetuously 
riving  asunder  the  side  of  a crater.  The  carriages  seemed  to 
be  forcing  their  way  through  a churning  flood  suddenly  let 
loose  and  mounting  to  their  axles.  The  keen  senses  of  Cog- 
gin  were  reminded  of  one  day  when  he  almost  lost  his  life 
urging  his  horse  and  cart  across  a ford  which  had  become 
a torrent,  wdiile  rattling  hailstones  thrashed  him  in  the  face 
and  a blatant  gale  strove  to  tear  the  very  life-breath  out  of 
his  lungs.  As  in  that  storm  of  wind  and  hail,  so  in  this 
clamor  of  trumpets  and  shoutings,  he  simply  ducked  his  head 


158 


THE  HARE 


and  set  his  teeth.  He  would  have  reached  the  station  door- 
way without  one  glance  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  without  so 
much  as  raising  his  eyes,  if  Edward  Redding  had  not  leapt 
down  from  one  of  the  hired  carriages  to  prompt  him  in  his 
duties. 

“ Stand  up.  Bow.  Salute.  Wave  your  hat.  Make  a 
speech.  Kiss  your  hand  to  the  ladies.  Do  anything  you  like, 
except  sitting  there  like  a propped-up  mummy,”  said  Redding. 
“The  people  will  be  offended/ ’ 

Helped  by  a shove  from  Sir  George,  Coggin  stood  up  half 
dazed  and  slowly  uncovered  his  head.  What  to  do  next  sur- 
passed his  wit;  but  fortunately  a raucous  shriek  cut  short 
the  ordeal.  The  train  which  was  to  take  him  away  came 
hammering  into  the  station,  whistling  horribly,  and  blowing 
off  clouds  of  steam. 

As  the  seven  fifty-five  always  halted  for  seven  minutes  at 
Bulford,  most  of  the  passengers  were  accustomed  to  jump 
down  to  stretch  their  legs.  Hearing  the  brass  bands  and  the 
cheering  they  were  fired  with  curiosity  and  the  platform  be- 
came a scene  of  great  excitement.  Harry  was  painfully  aware 
of  people  thronging  round  him  and  talking  about  him.  He 
was  also  vaguely  conscious  of  Edward  Redding,  who  was  help- 
ing the  porters  to  hoist  some  new  valises  into  a first-class 
compartment. 

When  the  Mayor  and  the  other  notables  pressed  his  hand 
and  heartily  wished  him  God-speed,  Harry  came  to  himself. 
He  returned  the  hand-clasps  cordially,  gratefully,  respectfully. 
The  city  fathers  fell  back,  leaving  the  young  man  alone  with 
Lady  Batwood  and  Mrs.  Hilliard.  Suddenly  the  elder  lady 
thoughtlessly  exclaimed : 

“How  selfish  we  are,  dear  Sylvia!  We  are  keeping  Mr. 
Coggin  from  saying  good-by  to  his  own  family  and  friends. ” 

“How  selfish  of  us!”  echoed  her  ladyship.  “Mr.  Coggin, 
do  pray  forgive  us.” 


THE  DELIVERER 


159 


“I  have  no  family  or  friends/’  said  Harry,  flushing  up. 
In  his  utter  loneliness  he  took  a short  step  nearer  to  these 
two  kind  women;  but  almost  in  the  same  moment,  shame 
smote  him  and  he  fell  back.  Surely,  he  thought,  the  two 
ladies’  words  were  meant  as  a hint,  almost  a rebuke  against 
his  presumption  in  sticking  so  long  and  so  close  by  their 
sides. 

Mrs.  Hilliard  divined  his  thought.  All  that  Edward  Red- 
ding had  told  her  about  this  strange  orphan  youth,  without 
one  near  relation,  without  one  comrade  in  the  world,  rushed 
back  into  her  mind;  and  she  hated  herself  for  her  tactless, 
careless,  wounding  speech.  She  tripped  towards  Coggin,  with 
a stammering  explanation  on  her  tongue  ’s  end.  But  at  that 
very  instant  a bell  rang  loudly,  the  whistle  of  the  engine 
shrilled  out  once  more,  and  harsh  voices  bawled  “Take  your 
seats,  take  your  seats,  please!”  Redding,  who  had  already 
said  farewell  to  the  ladies,  darted  forward  and  whisked  hold 
of  Coggin’s  arm. 

It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Hilliard  performed  the  action  which 
caused  a few  people  to  call  her,  ever  afterwards,  a splendid 
woman,  while  it  led  many  others  to  describe  her  as  “very  nice 
but  a little  bit  funny  sometimes.”  With  the  eyes  of  the 
Mayor,  the  aldermen,  the  councilors,  the  passengers  from 
Demehaven,  and  the  railway  officials  upon  her  she  suddenly 
pounced  on  Harry  Coggin,  the  rag-and-bone  man’s  son,  held 
him  tightly  against  her  great  cameo  brooch  with  her  two 
shapely,  silk-clad  arms  and  kissed  him,  not  on  the  cheek  but 
on  the  lips,  as  she  had  never  kissed  her  own  nephew  Alfred 
Tranter,  and  as  she  had  not  kissed  any  man  for  twenty  years. 
Then,  plucking  her  arms  free,  she  almost  threw  Harry  Coggin, 
like  a package,  at  Edward  Redding,  and  ran  away  with  a burst 
of  tears. 

The  composer  Coggin  sat  hunched  against  the  blue  box- 


160 


THE  HARE 


cloth  cushion,  dazed  and  dumb.  The  screams  of  the  engine 
and  the  fortissimo  of  the  brass  bands  no  longer  reached  his 
ears.  There  was  a red  rose  in  his  hand,  but  he  did  not  know 
that  it  had  been  thrust  there  by  the  entrancing  Lady  Batwood. 
Even  Edward  Redding,  sitting  in  the  corner  opposite,  seemed 
to  be  a mere  phantasm.  Nothing  was  real  save  the  kiss.  Jt 
danced  all  over  him,  like  sunbeams  on  running  water.  It 
hung  like  garlands  of  flowers  over  his  eyes,  round  his  neck,  his 
limbs,  his  wrists,  his  ankles,  fettering  him  softly  and  filling  his 
nostrils  with  sweet  scents.  lit  ran  and  climbed  all  over  him 
like  a magical  vine,  its  branches  full  of  tiny  song-birds,  tril- 
ling everywhere  and  chirping  secrets  in  his  ear.  It  wove  cool 
shade  between  him  and  the  scorch  of  the  sun.  It  built  up  a 
bulwark  against  the  brunt  of  the  storm.  It  poured  suave 
balm  into  all  the  wounds  of  his  spirit.  It  spread  the  dear  sense 
of  a mother’s  presence 'like  a warm  vesture  over  the  stark  out- 
lines of  his  loneliness.  And  withal  there  was  a wild  zest  as 
of  an  inaccessible  height  miraculously  visited  if  only  for  one 
eagle  moment. 

In  Harry  Coggin  there  was  nothing  of  the  snob;  yet  this 
patrician  kiss  meant  more,  incalculably  more,  to  him  than  all 
the  guineas,  all  the  trumpets,  all  the  banners,  all  the  torches. 
Throughout  all  the  years  of  his  life  this  delicate  and  superfine 
youth  had  been  held  at  arm ’s  length  by  gross  and  dull-minded 
“ betters.”  He  had  been  despised  and  rejected,  doomed  to 
spend  his  best  hours  and  energies  among  the  cast-off  trap- 
pings and  chattels  of  people  who,  despite  their  advantages  of 
birth  and  fortune,  were  mostly  unworthy  to  tie  his  bootlaces. 
In  his  solitary  home,  when  the  door  was  locked  and  the  world 
shut  out,  he  had  savored  fine  food,  lingered  over  fine  wine, 
handled  fine  glass,  fine  linen,  fine  silver,  fine  porcelain.  He 
had  read  the  fine  words  of  poets  in  four  languages,  he  had 
pored  over  fine  engravings,  and  above  all  he  had  interpreted 
the  finest  music.  But  fine  fellowship  with  fine  human  beings 


THE  DELIVERER 


161 


had  always  been  denied  him.  Customers,  acquaintances, 
proteges,  rivals,  enemies,  spongers  he  had  known  by  the  dozen ; 
but  never  a friend.  And  now,  in  the  very  last  minute  of  his 
loveless  life  in  Bulford  a woman,  a lady,  a beautiful  lady, 
had  suddenly  transfigured  him,  by  a,  kiss  which,  in  one  and  the 
same  moment,  was  both  the  healing  caress  of  a mother  by  the 
hearth,  and  the  wonder-kiss  of  a fairy  princess  in  some  blos- 
soming thicket  of  romance. 

The  enchantment  was  broken  by  Edward  Redding,  who 
cried  out : * ‘ Good  Lord,  Fritz  Coggenheimer,  what ’s  up  ? 
You  look  as  if  you  ’ve  had  a damned  good  hiding,  and  as  if 
you  Ve  been  chucked  out  of  Bulford  amidst  universal  execra- 
tions instead  of  being  the  central  figure  in  my  grand  tableau 
vivant  ‘ The  Apotheosis  of  Virtuous  Genius.  ’ It  has  been  stu- 
pendous. I can  hardly  believe  it  myself.  Listen.  We  can 
still  hear  them  playing  ‘ See  the  Conquering  Hero  goes,  High 
triumphant  o’er  his  foes,  Wipe  his  eyes  and  blow  his  nose.’ 
Hang  it  all,  Slogger,  shake  yourself  up.  I ’ve  kept  all  my 
promises;  now  haven’t  I?  I swore  you  should  leave  Bul- 
ford with  all  flags  flying.  They  flew,  did  n’t  they?  Also  the 
torches  torched,  and  the  speakers  speeched — except  your- 
self— and  the  drums  drummed  and  the  trumpets  trumpeted, 
and  the  horns  horned.  In  your  pocket-book  you  have  checks 
and  drafts  to  the  tune  of  nearly  four  thousand  pounds. 
You  ’re  finished  with  business  worries  and  with  Master  Albert 
Rambury  for  good  and  all.  In  this  envelope  are  your  pass- 
ports for  Holland  and  Prussia.  In  your  hand  is  a red  rose, 
given  you  by  the  most  adorable  young  beauty  in  the  country ; 
and,  by  the  way,  you  didn’t  even  say  'Thank  you’  for  it. 
Furthermore,  you  have  been  kissed  by  another  beautiful  lady, 
while  all  the  favor  she  bestowed  on  my  poor  self  was  tG  shake 
hands  and  send  her  love  to  my  mama  and  papa.  Herr  Pro- 
fessor Coggenberger,  you  are  the  pampered  darling  of  the 
gods.” 


162 


THE  HARE 


He  ceased  chattering;  because  the  train,  which  had  been 
clanking  and  pounding  along  at  not  much  more  than  a 
walking  pace,  came  to  a dead  standstill.  They  were  barely 
clear  of  the  smoky  sheds  and  stacks  of  coal  and  long  lines  of 
trucks  which  disfigured  the  country  for  a,  quarter  of  a mile 
or  so  beyond  Bulford  station. 

“What  *s  up?”  asked  Redding. 

As  he  spoke  the  train  lurched  once  more  into  clumsy  motion. 
It  bumped  onward  about  a furlong  and  stopped  again,  where 
the  railway  ran  through  fragrant  meadows.  Edward  jumped 
up  impatiently  and  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window  to  see 
what  was  wrong.  Evidently  there  was  trouble  with  the  en- 
gine; for  the  driver  and,  fireman  had  dismounted  and  were 
plying  huge  tools  upon  the  wheezy  locomotive  of  the  Deme- 
haven,  Bulford  and  Wynchurch  Railway  Company.  Redding 
turned  his  gaze  over  the  landscape.  The  June  dusk  was  deep- 
ening in  the  copses,  but  he  could  still  make  out  the  tower  and 
spire  and  high  roofs  of  Bulford  half  a mile  away.  A flight  of 
rockets  and  the  faint  bleatings  of  kettle-drums  and  comets 
in  the  distance  told  him  that  the  ciizens  were  unofficially  pro- 
longing the  festivities. 

Redding  was  about  to  call  Coggin  to  his  side  when  some- 
thing suddenly  met  his  gaze  and  drew  from  him  a low  whistle 
of  anxiety.  Trying  to  conceal  his  vexation  he  turned  round, 
taking  care  to  plant  his  broad  back  across  the  window.  In 
the  hope  of  keeping  Harry  occupied  until  the  train  should 
start  again,  he  resumed  his  chattering  in  loud  and  quick 
tones. 

“We  must  admit  that  Albert  Rambury  ...”  he  began. 
But  he  got  no  further.  Above  the  simmering  of  the  engine, 
above  the  muffled  talk  of  passengers  in  the  adjoining  com- 
partments, above  the  far-off  drone  of  the  brass  bands,  above 
the  swishing  of  the  tree-tops  in  the  rising  wind,  Henry  Cog- 
gin  heard  a sound,  a rhythmic  sound  which  he  knew  as  a 


THE  DELIVERER 


163 


maiden  knows  the  step  of  her  lover.  Springing  to  his  feet 
he  gained  the  window  at  one  stride;  and  when  his  guardian 
would  have  hindered  him  he  simply  swept  Edward  Redding 
aside  as  if  he  had  been  a mere  curtain  blocking  the  view. 

Galloping  grandly  across  the  daisied  grass,  and  scattering 
with  his  light  hoofs  the  golden  petals  of  the  buttercups,  on 
came  the  horse  Bay  Rum.  First  he  threw  up  his  proud  head, 
tossing  his  mane  on  the  breeze ; and  then  he  seemed  to  thrust 
his  muzzle  into  the  ground  and  to  upheave  his  hindquarters  and 
his  streaming  tail  in  a frenzy  of  joy.  By  some  strange  fate, 
Bay  Rum's  new  owner  had  put  him  to  graze  in  this  field  of 
all  fields  on  this  night  of  all  nights. 

The  train  began  ambling  on  once  more.  Bay  Rum  kept 
pace  with  the  squeaking  wheels.  Sometimes  he  trotted  gently, 
looking  up  at  Coggin  and  whinnying  his  delight.  Sometimes 
he  pranced  and  neighed.  When  he  came  to  a high  fence, 
dividing  his  field  from  the  next,  he  took  it  in  one  glorious  leap, 
as  if  on  Pegasus'  own  wings;  and  for  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  his  exquisite,  slender  body  seemed  to  be  poised  in  the 
air,  on  a level  with  Coggin 's  eyes  and  almost  within  reach  of 
his  desolate  hand. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  field  the  train  halted  yet  again, 
where  a limpid  brook  poured  through  a culvert  and  spread  out 
into  a clear  pool  overhung  by  silver  birches.  On  the  Bulford 
side  of  the  pool  rose  a vast  hedge,  untrimmed  for  years  and 
years — a hedge  so  dense  and  wide  and  high  that  no  mortal 
horse  could  have  leapt  it.  But  there  was  a round  gap  in  the 
gay  tangle  of  honeysuckle  and  whitethorn  and  bramble  and 
briar;  and  through  the  gap  Bay  Rum  gazed  up  at  the  train 
on  the  low  embankment;  gazed  full  into  Harry's  face.  He 
expected  his  old  master  to  leap  down,  to  smash  through  the 
thorns  and  nettles,  to  jump  astride  his  bare  back  and  to  race 
home  with  him  over  the  sweet  fields  to  the  old  stable,  slapping 
his  neck  and  murmuring  the  old  fond  names.  And  when 


164 


THE  HARE 


nothing  happened  the  big  eyes  filled  first  with  bewilderment 
and  then  with  unutterable  reproach  and  infinite  sadness. 

Harry  Coggin  stared  into  the  gap.  Between  Bay  Rum’s 
ears  he  saw  a bit  of  Bulford.  He  saw  St.  Michael’s  battle- 
mented  tower  and  the  high  gables  of  Bulford  School.  There 
was  his  world — a harsh  world,  a lonely  world,  an  unjust  world, 
but  his  own  world  and  all  the  world  he  knew.  There  were  the 
scenes  of  his  long  struggle,  of  all  his  brief  triumphs.  There 
were  the  scenes  of  his  long  struggle,  of  all  his  brief  triumphs. 
There  were  the  only  roofs  which  had  ever  been  his  homes. 
There  was  his  mother’s  grave.  There  was  Yellowhammer 
Lane.  There  was  his  baptismal  font  by  the  gray  old  bridge 
over  the  Skilbourne.  There  was  the  stately  gracious  lady,  the 
new-descended  goddess  who  like  a second  mother  had  kissed 
his  lips  and  held  him  to  her  breast.  And  there — no,  no,  not 
there,  but  here,  under  his  very  eyes,  waiting  and  despairing, 
was  his  horse,  his  good  horse,  Bay  Rum. 

Edward  Redding  heard  a dull  moan  and  saw  a hand  slip 
out  groping  for  the  handle  of  the  door.  His  first  impulse  was 
to  hurl  himself  roughly  on  Coggin  and  to  bark  contemptu- 
ously : “ You  fool  1”  But  a great  grace  was  given  to  him  from 
Heaven.  Hardly  knowing  what  he  did  and  what  he  said,  he 
laid  hold  of  Coggin ’s  arm  and  pleaded  in  tones  as  gentle  as 
a woman ’s : 

“Harry  . . . poor  old  Harry  ...  it ’s  nearly  over.  For 
God’s  sake,  for  your  old  friend  Teddie’s  sake,  for  my  father’s 
sake,  come  away  from  that  window.  Come,  and  sit  down.  ’ ’ 

As  he  uttered  the  last  syllable,  the  engine  belched  out  an 
enormous  cloud  of  steam;  and  the  evening  wind  sucked  the 
white  vapors  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge-row,  veiling  Bay 
Rum  from  sight.  The  driver  shrilled  his  whistle  loud  and 
long.  To  Harry  it  was  a wail  of  anguish;  but  to  Teddie  it 
was  a Roland’s  horn-blast  of  challenge  and  defiance  to  the 
unknown  world  beyond.  The  coaches  jolted  into  life  and 


THE  DELIVERER 


165 


dragged  themselves  clear  of  the  pool  and  the  silver  birches, 
just  as  Edward  Redding  gently  forced  Henry  Coggin  back 
into  his  corner. 

Making  up  for  lost  time,  the  train  dashed  noisily  over  a via- 
duct and  began  fussing  upwards  into  the  gloomy  pine-woods 
and  the  untilled  heaths  of  the  high  country  between  Updeme 
and  Wynchurch.  Darkness  was  falling  and  a chilly  wind 
blew  from  the  moorland  into  the  carriage.  Twice,  thrice,  four 
times,  Edward  Redding  tried  to  frame  the  opening  words  of  a 
conversation;  but  twice,  thrice,  four  times  his  tongue  stuck 
to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  The  money  and  what  to  do  with 
it ; the  efficiency  and  cordiality  of  the  Mayor ; the  bad  drinking- 
water  in  Holland  and  the  good  wines  of  the  Rhine ; the  best 
precautions  against  seasickness — all  these  topics  came  to  his 
mind  in  turn,  and  he  could  not  get  out  a word  on  any  single 
one  of  them.  Harry's  death-white  hard-set  face  forbade  him. 

Edward  Redding’s  proud  plumes  began  to  droop.  HarcUy 
an  hour  before,  amidst  the  din  of  the  trombones  and  the  gut- 
tering of  the  torches,  he  had  felt  like  Hannibal  and  Julius 
Caesar  and  Napoleon  rolled  into  one ; but  now  he  was  beginning 
to  reckon  himself  a swaggering,  heartless  brute.  For  wreeks 
he  had  been  mastering  Coggin  and  dominating  Bulford  by 
sheer  insolence.  What  was  his  victory  over  Rambury  save  im- 
prudent bluff?  The  hurrying  days  had  been  full  of  trans- 
porting excitement  and  satisfaction  for  himself ; but  by  what 
right  had  he  assumed  lordship  over  another  human  being, 
body  and  soul? 

By  degrees,  however,  this  mood  of  self-reproach  passed  away, 
giving  place  to  a strange  confidence  and  exaltation  such  as  Ed- 
ward Redding  had  never  before  experienced.  There  was  noth- 
ing mystical  in  this*  mercurial  and  strenuous  youth’s  nature, 
nor  was  he  religious.  Or  rather,  he  was  religious  at  second 
hand.  He  rarely  prayed  himself;  yet  he  revered,  his  father’s 
prayers.  He  had  hardly  any  direct  vital  belief  in  God ; but  he 


166 


THE  HARE 


believed  in  his  father’s  belief.  And  had  not  his  father  sent 
him  to  Bulford  with  an  express  command  to  bring  Harry  Cog- 
gin  away?  Had  not  his  father  solemnly  declared  again  and 
again  his  conviction  that  Almighty  God  had  some  great  work 
to  do  in  and  through  Harry  Coggin  ? As  he  sat  in  the  clatter- 
ing train,  Redding  recalled  that  strange  moment  in  Yellow- 
hammer  Lane  thirteen  years  before,  when  all  three  of  them 
had  gripped  hands  in  a solemn  pact. 

From  his  corner  he  glanced  at  Harry  Coggin,  still  in  a dumb 
agony.  Pity  filled  Redding’s  heart ; such  pity  as  he  had  never 
hitherto  felt  for  man  or  woman  or  child  or  beast.  If  God  had 
great  work  for  him  to  do,  it  was  perhaps  not  strange  that 
Harry  must  be  schooled  and  steeled  by  hardship,  persecution, 
disappointment,  bereavement,  loneliness.  Yet  why  should 
Harry  Coggin  be  always  a man  of  sorrows,  always  acquainted 
with  grief,  while  he,  Edward  Redding,  abounded  in  every  good 
thing?  A sudden  sense  of  Harry’s  high  destiny  overwhelmed 
Redding  until  he,  who  rarely  bowed  the  knee  to  God,  could 
have  knelt  down  in  reverence  before  this  marine-store  dealer’s 
son  with  whom  he  had  been  eating  and  drinking  and  swimming 
and  riding  and  planning  and  working  for  weeks,  in  patroniz- 
ing intimacy  but  never  in  simple  human  friendship. 

And  what  about  that  plan  of  his  for  making  Harry  into  a 
Heinrich,  a German?  Was  it  not  enough  to  have  torn  him 
from  his  native  town  without  driving  him  from  his  country 
too?  Edward  pondered  this  question  deeply.  But  once  again 
a great  confidence  and  exaltation  filled  his  mind  and  soul.  Not 
only  was  it  too  late  to  draw  back,  but  he  felt  curiously  sure 
that  in  forming  and  executing  the  project  he  too  was  helping 
in  some  vast  mysterious  divine  plan,  that  he  too  was  God’s 
appointed  servant. 

And  yet  . . . when  the  last  glimpse  of  day  was  gone  and 
the  only  light  in  the  carriage  came  from  a sickly  oil-lamp 
overhead,  Edward  Redding’s  heart  bled  for  his  companion 


THE  DELIVERER 


167 


afresh.  Half-an-hour  had  passed  without  a word,  without  a 
movement.  If  only  Harry  Coggin  had  upbraided  him  fiercely, 
or  had  broken  down  weakly  and  wept,  Redding  could  have 
endured  it ; but  this  white  face,  these  tight  lips,  these  wide-open 
eyes  filled  him  first  with  pity  and  then  with  fear. 

The  engine  shrieked  and  the  train  plunged  into  the  long 
Wynchurch  tunnel.  And  as  the  coaches  rocked  with  a deaf- 
ening roar  through  the  reek  of  sulphur,  Redding  quailed  at 
the  thought  that  this  mountain  over  their  aching  heads  was  a 
joint  in  the  very  backbone  of  old  England — the  old  England 
from  which  he  was  driving  Harry  Coggin  away.  He  shrank 
further  back  into  his  corner,  afraid  of  the  pale,  dumb,  staring 
orphan  without  kith  or  kin,  without  horse  or  hound,  without 
wife  or  child  or  sweetheart,  without  hearth  or  roof-tree,  with- 
out a city,  without  a fatherland. 


/ 


BOOK  II 

THE  WANDERER 


Sit  sumpsero  pennas  meas  diliculo  et  habitavero  in  extremis 
mar  is:  etenim  illuc  manus  tua  deducet  me:  et  tenebit  me 
dextera  tua. — psalmus  cxxxviii,  9,  10. 


CHAPTER  I 


EXCEPTING  Harry  Coggin,  the  passengers  aboard  The 
Queen  of  the  North  Sea  on  Thursday,  June  2nd,  1864, 
would  have  described  their  voyage  to  Rotterdam  as 
uneventful.  A favoring  breeze  blew  steadily  from  the  north- 
west, and  the  sky’s  dome,  resting  firmly  on  the  sharp  horizon, 
was  almost  without  a cloud.  A Swedish  bark  carrying  timber 
to  Newcastle,  a smoky  packet-boat  from  Antwerp  painfully 
breasting  the  wind,  and  a few  fishing-smacks,  were  the  only 
craft  encountered  by  The  Queen  during  her  two-hundred-mile 
run  from  the  Humber  to  the  Meuse.  For  Coggin,  however, 
the  trip  was  an  unbroken  wonder  and  a long  delight. 

Until  The  Queen  turned  Spurn  Head  and  fussed  out  into 
the  dancing  and  shining  German  Ocean,  Harry  had  never 
beheld  the  sea.  At  Demehaven  he  had  often  smelt  salt  water 
and  had  even  boarded  sea-going  ships : but  the  town  itself  was 
at  the  landward  end  of  a navigable  estuary,  twenty  miles 
from  blue  water. 

After  breakfast  at  the  bustling  inn  where  they  spent  the 
night  in  Hull,  Edward  Redding  had  wrung  Harry  Coggin’s 
hand  with  these  parting  words:  “How  I envy  you,  going 
abroad  for  the  first  time ! You  are  of  an  age  to  understand, 
to  compare,  to  appreciate.  My  father  and  mother  took  me 
twice  to  France  and  once  to  Switzerland  before  I was  nine 
years  old.  But  let  me  give  you,  Harry,  one  strong  caution. 
Don’t  expect  too  much ; and  then  you  will  not  be  disappointed. 
Foreign  countries  are  full  of  strangeness  and  charm ; but  they 
are  not  quite  ‘new  heavens  and  a new  earth.’  After  all 
you ’ve  read  and  heard,  prepare  to  be  a little  disappointed 

171 


172 


THE  HARE 


with  the  sea,  a good  deal  disappointed  with  Holland,  and  a 
bit  contemptuous  of  the  Rhine-land,  especially  Cologne.  Gnaw 
now  and  then  at  a hard  biscuit  and  you  won’t  be  sea-sick. 
Don’t  open  this  letter  which  I wrote  for  you  last  Sunday  un- 
til you  are  out  of  sight  of  land.  As  for  thanks,  I tell  you 
again  to  shut  up.  Good  luck  and  good-by.” 

The  sea  did  not  disappoint  Harry  Coggin.  It  captivated 
him.  He  gazed  and  gazed  upon  it,  oblivious  of  the  march  of 
time,  sometimes  peering  down  at  the  white  curds  churned  out 
by  the  thudding  paddle-wheels  and  sometimes  raising  his  eyes 
to  the  far-off  rim  where  skies  and  waters  met.  The  sea  was  to 
him  a vast  music.  It  was  not  only  music  for  his  ears ; because, 
beyond  the  swishings  and  drummings  of  the  water,  beyond  the 
chaunt  of  the  wind,  there  seemed  to  be  a huger  music,  a music 
visible  rather  than  audible,  a music  bewilderingly  intricate 
in  its  multitudinous  parts,  yet  of  god-like  simplicity  as  a whole. 
Two  hours  must  have  passed  in  this  copious  quenching  of  his 
long  parched  spirit’s  thirst  for  the  immense  and  the  unearthly ; 
and  he  might  have  gone  on  leaning  over  the  rail  for  two  hours 
more  if  the  steward  had  not  touched  his  arm  and  reminded 
him  that  the  mid-day  meal  was  ready. 

Although  The  Queen  of  the  North  Sea  was  famed  for  her 
airiness  and  sweetness,  Harry  would  have  found  the  stuffiness 
of  the  saloon  unendurable  if  he  had  not  been  immediately  en- 
grossed in  his  table-companions.  Saving  a family  of  tourists 
who  kept  themselves  rigidly  apart  at  the  smaller  table,  the 
passengers  were  English,  Dutch  and  German  merchants  and 
commercial  travelers,  with  a few  sea-faring  men  on  the  way  to 
join  their  ships  at  Rotterdam.  A good  deal  of  the  conversa- 
tion was  exchanged  in  foreign  tongues.  To  his  dismay  Harry, 
who  could  read  Dutch  slowly  and  German  fluently,  found  that 
at  first  he  was  not  able  to  distinguish  these  languages  one 
from  another.  High  Dutch  seemed  as  low  as  Low,  and  Low 
Dutch  as  high  as  High.  Here  and  there  he  recognized  words, 


THE  WANDERER 


173 


such  as  geld , wein,  meer,  dampschiff , brod:  but  these  familiar 
terms  whirled  past  him,  like  corks,  on  a torrent  of  verbs  and 
particles  which  meant  no  more  to  him  than  so  much  gib- 
berish. Heavily  discouraged,  he  rose  from  the  table  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment  and  hurried  upstairs  to  the  deck. 

The  engine,  which  made  noises  and  smells  disproportionate 
to  the  work  it  was  doing,  drew  him  out  of  his  vexation  for  a 
few  moments:  but  suddenly  its  rancid  odors  and  unwholesome 
heat  awoke  a qualm  strong  enough  to  remind  him  that  there 
was  such  a thing  as  sea-sickness.  Retreating  hastily  to  a less 
unsavory  spot,  he  tucked  a rug  about  his  knees  and  began  to 
gnaw  a ship’s  biscuit,  as  Edward  Redding  had  commanded. 
When  peace  had  returned  to  mind  and  body  alike,  Harry 
brought  out  his  mentor’s  letter  and  broke  the  seal.  This  is 
what  he  read : — 

Bulford,  Sunday , May  29.  ’64. 
Excellent  Hare  Coggenheimer. 

Prosit . litre  Gesundheit. 

You  will  read  this , if  you  are  not  too  sick,  upon  the  bound- 
ing billow.  I am  writing  it  at  Mrs.  Hilliard’s , while  you  are 
having  your  mysterious  Sunday  off.  By  the  way , mein  Hein- 
rich, I ’m  yot  so  sure  that  I ought  not  to  chercher  la  femme. 

After  the  meeting  next  Wednesday  night  we  shall  know 
your  monetary  position  to  a penny  and  1 shall  jot  down  a post- 
script to  this  letter.  We  know  enough , however,  for  our 
main  purpose.  Broadly , I advise  that  you  invest  the  whole  of 
your  capital  except  three  hundred  pounds,  immediately . 
With  perfect  security , it  should  bring  you  an  income  of  about 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  per  annum. 

As  for  the  three  hundred  pounds,  I most  earnestly  beg  you 
to  spend  them  all  in  Germany.  Living  is  cheap  in  the  Father- 
land  and  you  could  eat  heartily  and  wander  widely  on  a pound 
or  two  a week.  But  don’t  be  too  frugal.  This  is  the  first 
holiday  of  your  life , so  you  have  about  a dozen  Long  Vacations 


THE  HARE 


171 

to  make  up.  By  all  means  avoid  extravagance  and  keep  away 
from  the  cosmopolitan  caravanserais : hut  he  equally  careful  to 
avoid  niggardliness  and  to  shun  the  humblest  kinds  of  hed  and 
hoard.  Go  often  to  concerts . to  the  theater  and  to  the  opera 
— they  We  wonderfully  inexpensive  in  Germany.  By  the  way, 
mein  Hare,  1 suspect  you  We  never  been  to  a theater  or  an 
opera-house  in  your  life.  What  hours  you  have  in  store! 

On  twenty  pounds  a month  you  can  fare  sumptuously, 
sleep  decently,  drink  curiously  and  hear  good  music  seven 
times  a week.  That  is  to  say,  your  three  hundred  pounds 
should  last  you  until  the  end  of  August  next  year.  You  must 
look  on  this  £300  as  money  invested,  which  will  he  fruitful  as 
long  as  you  live.  By  August  ’65,  du  klevver  Heinrich,  you 
will  have  learned  to  write  and  speak  German  like  a native. 
Your  prodigious  memory  and  your  genius  for  languages  will 
make  the  task  both  pleasant  and  easy.  Keep  your  eyes  open 
for  German  manners  and  customs.  Jot  down  in  an  indexed 
hook  any  little  proverbs  and  colloquialisms  and  homely  sayings 
which  are  not  in  the  dictionaries.  Wriggle  inside  the  Ger- 
man skin.  You  have  read  the  German  classics ; now  get  to 
work  on  their  newspapers,  their  popular  novels,  their  daily 
trash.  And  learn  to  drink  their  beer,  to  smoke  their  tobacco. 

In  acquiring  the  spoken  language,  you  will  save  time — and 
money,  too,  in  the  long  run — by  employing  at  teacher  to  cor- 
rect you.  Beware  of  the  young  German  who  offers  to  “ex- 
change conversation.”  When  it  comes  to  exchange,  your  Ger- 
man always  wants  the  better  of  the  bargain.  Pay  him  his  fee 
— it  will  be  very  small — and  command  his  services,  with  no 
nonsense. 

While  I am  not  competent  to  advise  you  concerning  your 
musical  studies , let  me  recommend  you  not  to  begin  them  too 
soon.  Enjoy  a long,  lazy  holiday  first  of  all.  Have  what  the 
German  student  calls  “ a wander-year.”  But  don’t  let  music 
drop.  Whenever  you  are  in  a town  where  there  is  a good 


THE  WANDERER 


175 


organ , just  stifle  your  bashfulness  and  cultivate  acquaintance 
with  the  Herr  Kapellmeister  till  he  lets  you  try  the  instru- 
ment. Make  yourself  known,  as  a brother  artist,  to  the  con- 
ductors of  orchestras  and  even  to  the  directors  of  opera-houses. 
They  will  welcome  you  to  rehearsals ; and , although  I ’m  not  a 
musician  myself , I imagine  that  a rehearsal  can  teach  you  more 
than  a performance. 

After  a few  months,  you  will  decide  what  musical  center 
to  live  in — I suppose  it  will  be  Leipsic — and  what  frowsy  old 
ruffian  to  study  under.  But  even  when  your  hard  work  be- 
gins, do  not  cease  to  study  Germans  and  Germany  until  you 
know  them  back  and  front. 

One  counsel  more,  mein  best.  Although  you  have  been 
wretched  and  a failure  as  Henry  Coggin,  Englishman , I have 
observed  these  last  few  days  that  you  drop  your  eyes  and 
pucker  your  brows  whenever  1 mention  your  turning  Ger- 
man. Why ? If  our  royal  princesses  turn  German  for  high 
reasons  of  State,  why  shouldn’t  you  turn  German  for  high 
reasons  of  Art?  Is  a symphony  less  important  than  a 
dynasty?  Now  here  is  my  counsel.  Whenever  you  feel  you 
won’t  and  can’t  be  a German — whenever  you  feel  that  you 
must  and  will  be  an  Englishman , then  ( in  spite  of  what  I ’ ve 
said  about  keeping  away  from  such  places)  go  and  spend  seven 
nights  in  one  of  the  first-class  hotels,  where  the  traveling 
English  stay.  Or  spend  seven  days  steaming  up  and  down 
the  Rhine.  Unless  I ’m  much  mistaken , this  will  always  cure 
you  of  wanting  to  be  taken  for  an  Englishman  any  more. 

Now  for  my  final  requests.  Write  to  me  every  month;  and 
to  my  father  every  quarter,  as  of  yore.  Don’t  make  an  ass 
of  yourself  by  falling  in  love,  without  my  full  knowledge  and 
express  permission.  And,  if  from  time  to  time  you  have  a few 
hidden  odd  thalers  to  spare,  remember  how  much  I should  like 
you  to  collect  some  thoroughly  German  bric-a-brac  for  me,  such 
as  long  pipes,  beer-mugs,  hock-glasses,  pots,  hatchments , prints, 


176 


THE  HARE 


and  so  on.  Pack  them  up  and  send  them  to  my  London  ad- 
dress. Mit  ein  tausend  good  wishes,  Ich  bleibe 
Your  devoted  Freund  fur  Ewigkeit, 

Edward  Redding. 

The  postscript,  which  had  been  scrawled  in  pencil,  was  as 
follows : 

You  have  £3842  1.  2.  Spend  £342  1.  2.  without  a qualm. 
While  you  are  outre-mer,  interest  will  be  accumulating  on 
£3500  in  old  England.  Be  young  and  careless.  Live  only 
one  moment  at  a time.  As  for  turning  German  you  don’t 
need  to  decide  for  another  year.  Auf  wiedersehn. 

The  breeze  had  weakened  and  the  sunsl  ine  had  strengthened 
when  Harry  Coggin  finally  thrust  Edward  Redding’s  letter 
back  into  his  breast-pocket.  He  was  on  the  point  of  casting 
the  rug  from  hir.  knees  and  of  springing  up  to  resume  his  work 
when  he  remembered  that  he  had  no  work  to  do,  no  work- 
shop, no  task-master,  not  even  a pricking  and  prodding  con- 
science. At  first  the  situation  appalled  him.  He  felt  like  a 
man  who,  after  toiling  for  days  through  a tangled  and  thorny 
forest,  comes  out  suddenly  into  the  daylight  and  finds  him- 
self on  the  brink  of  a precipice,  looking  down  upon  a sum- 
mer sea,  without  a sail,  without  a shore.  Prom  his  earliest 
days,  Harry  had  always  had  duty,  duty,  duty  upon  his  earnest 
mind.  Even  at  the  age  of  five  it  was  his  task  to  sort  out  old 
nails  and  to  separate  the  scraps  of  white  paper  from  the  blue 
and  the  brown. 

Edward  Redding’s  words  came  back  to  him : “Be  young  and 
careless.”  And  as  he  sat  and  pondered  the  matter  he  per- 
ceived for  the  first  time  how  hard  his  lot  had  been ; how  little 
of  life’s  feast  he  had  tasted;  how  pallid  and  dumb  had  been 
his  boyhood  and  youth ; and  from  what  a treadmill  the  mar- 
velous Teddie  had  delivered  him. 


THE  WANDERER 


177 


Something’  came  between  him  and  the  snn.  It  was  a fishing- 
smack,  ripping  up  the  bright  water  as  she  shoved  along  under 
a vast  spread  of  sail.  The  canvas,  of  a glorious  amber  hue, 
seemed  to  be  alive  as  it  stretched  and  eased,  eased  and  stretched, 
in  the  wind,  like  the  flanks  of  a striving  horse.  It  was  the 
first  time  Harry  had  seen  such  a sight.  He  leapt  from  his 
seat  and  ran  for  a nearer  view.  As  he  gripped  the  rail,  the 
wind  tore  off  the  crest  of  a little  wave  and  dashed  it  full  in 
Harry's  face.  Like  waters  of  baptism,  the  cool  salt  spray  in- 
stantly woke  him  to  new  life.  A man  on  the  deck  of  the 
fishing-smack  waved  a huge  hand  and  hailed  him  with  some 
jovial  greeting  which  was  lost  in  the  noises  of  crunching  water 
and  slapping  wind.  Harry  shouted  back.  It  was  a shout 
without  words ; a shout  like  the  glad  cry  of  a toil-chafed  ani- 
mal let  loose  to  roll  and  kick  in  unmown  grass. 

He  gazed  eastward.  England  had  long  ago  faded  froitf 
sight.  He  reminded  himself  that  beyond  the  horizon  England 
still  stood — England  and  especially  Bulford.  He  tried  to 
picture  the  old  town,  to  guess  what  his  successors  were  doing 
in  the  chapel,  and  what  the  townsfolk  were  saying  about  the 
meeting  in  the  Town  Hall.  He  failed.  Bulford,  seemed  dead 
— as  dead  as  Herculaneum  and  as  deeply  buried.  Indeed,  be- 
side himself,  there  seemed  to  be  only  three  truly  living  and 
breathing  people  in  the  world — Teddie  Redding,  and  Mrs. 
Hilliard,  and  the  man  on  the  fishing-smack  still  waving  to 
him  across  the  widening  stretch  of  chumed-up  water.  No. 
There  was  a fourth — Bay  Rum,  his  good  horse  Bay  Rum, 
whose  tail  and  mane  would  have  streamed  so  grandly  in  this 
frolic  wind. 


CHAPTER  II 


EFT  to  himself,  Henry  Coggin  would  certainly  have 


sought  out  one  of  the  cheapest  of  the  Rotterdam 


M.  ^ hotels — the  cheapest  of  all,  so  long  as  it  was  clean. 
He  was  not  a miser;  but  twenty  years  of  social  ostracism  in 
Bulford  had  formed  in  him  a habit  of  preferring  obscure 
comers  and  backwaters.  Redding,  however,  had  foreseen 
this  danger  and  had  resolved  that  his  ward’s  first  day  and 
night  abroad  should  be  properly  spent.  He  knew  that  it  is 
the  first  step  which  costs ; and  he  had  confidence  that  the  sec- 
ond step  and  the  third,  the  hundredth  and  the  ten  thousandth, 
would  be  along  the  right  path,  provided  a sound  beginning 
could  be  assured.  Just  as  The  Queen  of  the  North  Sea  had 
made  fast  almost  under  the  trees  in  leafy,  noisy  Rotterdam, 
the  steward  came  up  to  Harry  very  respectfully  and  said : 

“ I beg  pardon,  Mr.  Coggin.  No  offense,  sir,  but  I believe 
this  is  your  first  acquaintance  with  foreign  parts.  I have  given 
my  word  to  your  friend  Mr.  Redding  to  see  that  you  find 
your  way  safely  to  a house  which  Mr.  Redding  recommends — 
a house  where  the  landlord  isn’t  a robber  and  where  the 
vittles  and  wine  aren’t  poison.  So  with  your  leave,,  sir, 
I ’m  going  to  put  you  in  a fly  and  in  a jiffey  you  ’ll  be  inside 
the  Hotel  Haas,  a comfortable  house,  where  you  don’t  need 
to  speak  the  Dutch  lingo.  I can’t  leave  the  ship  just  now: 
but  I shall  have  the  honor,  God  willing,  of  paying  my  respects 
to  you  to-morrow  morning,  sir.  I must  n’t  forget  to  give  you 
the  book  from  Mr.  Redding.  I wish  you  good-day,  sir.  Al- 
ways at  your  service,  sir.  ’ ’ 

The  book  was  a guide  to  the  Rhine-land,  written  in  English 


178 


THE  WANDERER 


179 


by  a bookseller  of  Coblenz  and  printed  in  Leipsic.  Before 
Harry  could  fairly  examine  it,  be  found  himself  beset  by 
formidable  officials  from  the  customs-house.  The  steward, 
however,  came  to  his  aid  and  he  was  not  even  asked  for  his 
keys.  Within  half  an  hour  of  The  Queen  of  the  North  Sea’s 
first  bump  against  the  quay  wall,  Harry  was  standing  in  a 
foot-bath  in  his  bed-room  at  the  Haas  Hotel  splashing  himself 
from  head  to  foot. 

Edward  Redding’s  was  a wonder-working  name  in  this  hos- 
pitable house.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  constantly  recom- 
mending it  to  his  friends  and  that  he  had  himself  stayed  thrice 
under  its  roof.  An  abundant  and  interesting  meal  soon  made 
its  appearance,  accompanied  by  half  a bottle  of  racy  Piesporter 
beautifully  cooled.  After  luncheon  Harry  obtained  a supply 
of  small  coins  and  wandered  out  to  see  the  sights.  His  guide- 
book glowed  about  the  Boyman’s  Museum:  but  on  enquiring 
the  way  thither  he  was  informed  by  a Dutch  gentleman  who 
spoke  English  that  the  building  had  been  burned  down  only 
a year  before,  and  most  of  the  pictures  with  it. 

Harry  soon  found,  however,  that  there  were  pictures, 
hundreds  of  glowing  pictures,  to  be  seen  without  entombing 
himself  in  the  stuffy  interior  of  a museum.  At  every  step  he 
encountered  something  enchanting  or  astounding.  In  a sunny 
square,  bordered  by  a giant  canal,  the  traveler  stumbled  into 
the  chattering,  fragrant  midst  of  an  open-air  flower-market. 
He  fled  bashfully  from  the  buxom  Dutch  flower-maidens,  but 
not  without  marveling  at  their  picturesque  head-gear  and 
especially  at  the  spirals  of  solid  gold  projecting  from  their 
foreheads. 

The  Groote  Kerk,  or  Great  Church  of  St.  Lawrence,  rose 
before  him.  Taking  them  two  at  a time  with  his  nimble  legs, 
he  soon  climbed  the  three  hundred  and  twenty-five  steps  to 
the  top  of  the  tower.  As  he  leaned,  looking  downwards  and 
upwards,  northwards  and  southwards,  eastwards  and  west- 


180 


THE  HARE 


wards,  he  wondered  how  Teddie  Redding  could  have  said  that 
the  Continent  was  not  “new  heavens  and  a new  earth/ ’ The 
heavens  were  certainly  new  heavens ; for  like  an  inverted  bowl 
of  turquoise  and  mother-o ’-pearl,  they  came  down  and  met 
the  horizon  at  every  point,  like  the  sky  over  the  open  sea, 
without  one  distant  mountain-range,  without  even  one  low 
hill  to  rob  the  lucent  hemisphere  of  a single  inch.  And  the 
earth  was  a new  earth.  As  flat  as  a chessboard,  nearly  a 
thousand  square  miles  of  humming,  smiling  country  lay  in 
full  sight.  The  waterways,  which  had  looked  peagreen  and 
smelt  worse  than  brackish  as  Coggin  walked  beside  them  from 
his  hotel,  seemed  to  become  a gem-like  blue  as  they  flowed 
through  rural  Holland,  sometimes  cutting  narrow  lanes 
straight  through  the  fields,  sometimes  spreading  out  like  lakes 
or  estuaries.  The  droll  sails  of  hundreds  of  windmills,  flip- 
ping round  and  round,  gave  to  the  beholder  who  looked  at 
them  too  long  the  feeling  that  he  was  gazing  not  at  a patch 
of  the  real  world  but  at  a vast  toy,  at  a set-out  of  Noah’s-ark 
trees  and  buildings,  at  a painted  model  run  by  hidden  clock- 
work. Here  and  there  where  the  light  nor’-easter  suited 
them,  barges  with  big  sails  shining  swan-white  in  the  strong 
sunshine  seemed  to  be  moving  across  the  dry  land,  like 
hay  wains  through  English  meadows. 

An  inscription  on  the  parapet  informed  Harry  Coggin  that 
the  more  distant  belfries  within  this  field  of  vision  belonged 
to  towns  whose  names  he  had  long  known  well — the  Hague  and 
Delft,  Dort  and  Leyden.  But  even  these  far-off  towers  fas- 
cinated him  less  powerfully  than  the  spectacle  immediately 
below  him.  Excepting  his  hurried  glimpses  of  Hull  on  the 
short  drive  from  the  inn  to  the  steam-packet,  this  was  Harry’s 
first  sight  of  a large  town.  It  was  also  his  first  ascent  of  a 
tower ; because  the  crumbling  stairway  ^vhich  led  to  the  top 
of  St.  Michael’s  at  Bulford  has  been  closed  to  the  public  for 
many  years.  Having  nerves  of  steel  he  leaned  well  over. 


THE  WANDERER 


181 


More  than  two  hundred  feet  below,  pigmies  pottered  hither  and 
thither  with  the  absurd  insistency  of  black  ants.  Through 
the  fresh  June  foliage  of  trees  which  looked  as  if  they  could 
have  been  pulled  up  with  one  hand  and  transplanted  into 
flower-pots,  he  could  see  toy. boats  moving  along  gutters  of 
bronze-blue  water.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  painted 
houses  made  gay  silhouettes  against  the  sky  with  their  stepped 
gables  and  their  squeaking,  glittering  weathercocks.  All  the 
while  there  rose  up  from  the  chimneys  a weak  smoke;  and 
from  the  streets  a dull  hum,  pricked  through  by  the  cracking 
of  whips  and  the  cries  of  children. 

Harry  spent  more  than  a week  in  Holland.  Armed  with 
cards  of  introduction  from  his  Rotterdam  landlord,  he  found 
comfortable  quarters  and  pleasant  people  everywhere.  With 
a little  help  from  waiters  and  from  chance  acquaintances  he 
soon  commanded  enough  of  the  language  to  make  known  his 
wants  and  to  understand  the  directions  he  often  asked  for  in 
the  streets.  Traveling  in  the  Nederland  was  distinctly  dear, 
running  up  to  at  least  a guinea  a day : but  he  had  brought  from 
England  nearly  twenty  pounds  of  current  cash  which  had  not 
been  reckoned  in  Redding’s  £3842  1.  2.  and  he  felt  it  would 
please  his  friend  if  he  spent  this  extra  money  in  seeing  some- 
thing of  the  Low  Countries  without  overmuch  counting  of  the 
cost.  Including  ten  florins  which  he  paid  at  Haarlem,  as  a 
fee  for  a special  recital  on  the  world-famous  organ,  his  total 
expenses  for  a week  did  not  amount  to  a ten-pound  note ; and 
although  he  would  have  been  staggered  a month  before  at  the 
idea  of  spending  even  forty  shillings  on  a holiday,  somehow 
it  seemed  quite  natural  to  be  tipping  sacristans  and  paying  a 
couple  of  guilders  for  a bottle  of  Rhenish. 

Since  English  pounds  and  Dutch  florins  were  first  minted, 
nobody  could  have  got  richer  value  for  the  coins  he  left  be- 
hind him  than  Harry  Coggin  during  those  sunny  days  in  Rot- 


182 


THE  HARE 


terdam  and  Delft,  in  the  galleries  of  the  Hague,  on  the  sea- 
shore at  breezy  Sclieveningen,  in  learned  Leyden,  and  in 
Venice-like  Amsterdam.  The  blaze  of  tulips  had  burned  low 
on  the  bulb  farms,  but  the  storks  were  as  proud  as  ever  in  their 
high  nests,  the  decorators  were  smothering  the  water-side 
summer-houses  with  vivid  green  and  blue  and  yellow  paint, 
and  even  the  4 ‘dead”  cities  which  he  visited  by  steamboat  from 
Amsterdam  were  all  alive  with  bustling  people  in  the  old 
national  dress. 

Harry  loved  it  all.  He  loved  the  rollicking  carillons  which 
seemed  hardly  ever  silent  in  the  huge  brick  belfries.  What 
was  the  short  broadside  of  the  Bulford  bells  compared  with 
these  batteries  of  bells,  big  and  little,  which  could  stamp  along 
like  a giant  in  seven-leagued  boots  and  at  the  same  time  spin 
all  round  the  bumping  tune  an  accompaniment  as  light  as  a 
spider's  web?  He  loved  the  pictures — not  only  such  world- 
famous  canvases  as  Rembrandt’s  ‘ 4 Night  Watch”  and  Paul 
Potter’s  “Bull”  and  van  der  Heist’s  “Banquet  of  the  Arque- 
busiers,”  but  also  the  less  notorious  master-pieces  of  Flinck, 
of  Vermeer,  of  Hals,  of  Steen,  of  Hobbema.  He  loved  the 
copper-beeches  and  the  lime-trees  overhanging  the  canals : the 
leaning  towers ; the  vast  meres  with  the  vanes  of  steeples  and 
the  tops  of  windmills  just  peeping  above  the  embankments. 
He  loved  the  brisk,  light,  innocent  Bavarian  beer : the  liberal 
meals,  especially  the  bewildering  breakfasts  of  smoked  beef 
and  rusks  and  butter  and  cheese  and  strawberries:  the  lan- 
guage, so  often  like  a kind  of  English  spoken  from  a larger 
mouth ; and  especially  the  life  of  the  cafes  and  inns  where  you 
could  talk  English  or  French,  German  or  Dutch,  as  you 
pleased. 

The  youth’s  only  disappointment  was  in  the  churches. 
Throughout  the  old  hard  days  at  Bulford,  when  he  used  to 
pore  over  illustrated  books  of  travel  with  never  a hope  or  a 


THE  WANDERER 


183 


dream  of  setting  foot  on  a foreign  shore,  the  engravings  and 
descriptions  of  dim  and  huge  cathedrals  had  impressed  him 
more  than  everything  else.  In  Holland,  however,  he  looked 
in  vain  for  majestical  and  mysterious  temples,  where  the  com- 
mon daylight  could  not  enter  until  it  had  filtered  through 
painted  glass,  staining  itself  with  the  blood  of  martyrs,  puri- 
fying itself  in  the  snow  of  virgins  and  catching  glory  from  the 
golden  crowns  of  saints  triumphant.  In  vain  he  sought  for 
the  pale  sweet  mists  of  incense,  for  the  sonorous  antiphons, 
for  the  myriad  candles,  for  the  slow  processions  with  tink- 
ling canopies  and  broidered  banners,  for  the  peasant  devotees 
huddled  before  a smoke-blackened  image  and  a silver  lamp  in 
some  shadowy  recess  between  enormous  piers. 

Harry  soon  gave  up  trying  to  penetrate  the  interiors  of 
Holland’s  great  parish  churches  and  old  cathedrals.  The 
Dutch  Reformed  Church  like  the  Bulford-on-Deme  Baptists 
and  Methodists,  kept  the  temples  locked  up  except  when  some- 
body was  going  to  preach.  At  first,  Harry  persisted  in  his 
effort  till  the  doors  were  opened:  but,  as  a rule  a precious 
hour  had  to  be  wasted.  Often  the  key  would  have  to  be  un- 
earthed at  some  old  book-shop  or  office  a long  way  from  the 
church.  There  was  nearly  always  a fee  to  be  paid  to  a grumpy 
sexton  or  to  a member  of  his  family : and  when,  after  all  this 
expenditure  of  time  and,  money  and  temper,  the  big  keys 
turned  in  the  locks  at  last,  the  church-interior  was  almost  sure 
to  prove  a disappointment.  In  place  of  a stone  vaulting  there 
was  usually  a poor  wooden  ceiling,  while  lumbering  pews 
and  stalls  obscured  the  architectural  lines,  and  acres  of  white- 
wash chilled  and  cheapened  the  walls  and  columns.  Now  and 
then  the  cicerone  would  shew  a curiosity  such  as  a carved 
pulpit  or  a grandiose  monument  of  some  seventeenth-century 
Dutch  admiral,  in  a pagan  style.  And  if  Harry  thought  little 
of  these  desecrated  naves  and  aisles,  it  was  evident  that  the 


184 


THE  HARE 


sacristans  thought  still  less ; for  they  usually  kept  their  hats 
on  their  heads  the  whole  time  and  even  went  on  smoking  their 
pipes. 

On  his  first  morning  in  Amsterdam,  after  waiting  awhile  op- 
posite the  barred  and  bolted  portals  of  the  cruciform,  four- 
teenth-century Oude  Kerk  in  the  Warmoestraat,  Coggin  was 
working  along  the  Oudezijds  Yoorburgwal  towards  the  quays 
when  he  noticed  two  women  in  black,  with  what  appeared  to' 
be  prayer-books  in  their  hands,  hurrying  into  an  old  building. 
Glancing  towards  the  door,  he  saw  that  it  was  open ; and,  hav- 
ing already  begun  to  acquire  a sightseer’s  habits,  he  did  not 
scruple  to  mount  the  steps.  On  the  threshold  a strange,  pleas- 
ant odor  met  him  and  suddenly  brought  him  to  a halt.  Where 
had  he  inhaled  that  faint  but  insistent  perfume  before?  Al- 
though it  was  so  weak  and  elusive,  it  asserted  itself  even  above 
the  rankness  of  the  broad  canal  which  crawled  along  a few 
yards  eastward  of  where  Harry  was  standing. 

He  remembered.  This  was  the  smell  of  incense.  At  Bul- 
ford,  very  rarely,  certainly  not  more  than  half-a-dozen  times 
in  his  whole  life,  Harry  Coggin  had  ventured  inside  the  tiny 
Catholic  Chapel  in  Tripp  Street.  The  place  had  always  re- 
pelled him;  because  it  was  not  merely  small  and  poor  but 
mean  and  ill-kept.  An  aged  and  infirm  priest  ministered 
there  to  a handful  of  Bulford’s  poorest  people.  Indeed,  if 
Harry  had  been  pressed  to  say  what  he  remembered  of  Tripp 
Street  Catholic  Chapel,  he  would  have  named  only  the  grimy 
windows,  the  whirligig  ventilator  which  had  long  ceased  to 
whirl,  some  statuettes  daubed  with  many  faded  colors  and  a 
few  vases  of  paper  roses.  It  would  not  have  occurred  to  him 
to  mention  the  lingering  scent  of  incense.  And  yet,  as  he 
halted  almost  in  fear  on  this  old  doorstep  in  wealthy,  famous 
Amsterdam,  the  ghostly  sweetness  was  closer  to  him  than  his 
own  breath.  As  if  on  a magic  carpet,  worn  thinner  than  a 


THE  WANDERER 


185 


rose-leaf  dried  in  an  old  book,  Bulford  and  all  its  memories 
were  borne  to  him  across  the  Deme,  across  half  England,  across 
the  North  Sea,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Two  more  women  with  prayer-books  brushed  past  him  and 
entered  what  he  now  knew  was  a church:  but,  although  he 
immediately  recovered  his  self-possession,  Coggin  did  not  dare 
to  follow  them.  For  all  he  knew  to  the  contrary,  some  sort 
of  Romanist  Mother’s  Meeting  was  toward;  so  he  reluctantly 
turned  away.  An  hour  afterwards,  however,  he  came  upon 
another  and  newer  Catholic  Church,  of  more  obvious  ecclesi- 
astical character.  This  too  was  open : and  he  ventured  inside. 

The  same  fragrance  of  incense  pervaded  the  place:  but  all 
else  was  unfamiliar.  In  St.  Michael’s  and  in  St.  Peter’s  at 
Bulford  and  in  the  great  white-washed  churches  of  Rotterdam 
and  Leyden  and  Haarlem  he  had  seen  decorous  communion- 
tables: but  this  was  his  first  sight  of  a High  Altar,  with  a 
painted  reredos,  with  a crucifix,  with  six  tall  candlesticks  and 
with  a row  of  seven  lighted  lamps  hanging  before  it.  The 
frontal,  of  finest  linen,  was  embroidered  with  the  words  Adoro 
Te  devote,  Latens  Deltas  and  there  were  many  other  tags  of 
Latin  to  be  seen  in  the  stained  glass  windows  and  on  the  sten- 
ciled walls.  The  Dutch  language,  however,  was  not  absent. 
For  example,  Harry  was  deeply  impressed  by  a series  of  vivid 
paintings,  seven  on  the  right-hand  wall  and  seven  on  the  left ; 
and  he  noticed  that  the  legends  under  these  pictures,  which 
represented  stages  of  the  Sacred  Passion,  were  all  in  the  ver- 
nacular. Here  and  there  were  religious  paintings  in  mellowed 
frames  and  life-size  statues  of  saints. 

For  ten  minutes  or  so,  Coggin  had  the  church  to  himself. 
At  length  a man  came  in — a young  man  of  about  Harry’s  own 
age — and  made  a genuflexion.  Beginning  at  the  first  of  the 
fourteen  pictures,  the  stranger  compassed  the  circuit  of  them 
all,  kneeling  for  a few  moments  before  each  painting  and  say- 


186 


THE  HARE 


mg  some  prayers.  This  task  done,  he  knelt  more  deliberately 
in  the  nave,  with  his  gaze  bent  on  the  High  Altar,  his  lips 
moving  the  while.  Then  he  rose  and  went  away. 

Perceiving  an  arched  opening  to  the  right  of  the  chancel, 
Harry  went  forward  on  tip-toe  and  found  a shallow  chapel. 
Several  candles  were  burning  on  a stand;  and  above  a low 
altar  there  stood  amid  white  flowers  a life-size  statue  of  the 
Virgin  Mother  of  God  holding  the  Babe  in  her  arms.  The 
sight-seer  was  about  to  pass  on  when  a strong  beam  of  sun- 
light suddenly  illumined  the  image,  from  the  small  white  foot 
peeping  out  under  the  Lady’s  blue  robe  to  the  great  jeweled 
diadem  which  crowned  her  golden  hair.  A memory  even  more 
powerful  than  the  incense  brought  Harry,  for  the  second  time, 
to  a standstill.  In  his  lonely  house  at  Bulford  there  had  been 
an  old  print,  one  among  hundreds,  which  never  failed  to  en- 
chain him.  It  was  an  engraving  “before  letters”  of  some 
altar-piece,  a Madonna  and  Child.  Austere  ecclesiastics  might 
have  condemned  it,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  outside  the  hier- 
atic tradition;  while  superfine  art-critics  would  have  sniffed 
at  it  because  it  gave  great  and  immediate  pleasure  even  to  the 
untrained  eye.  Upon  Coggin  it  had  cast  and  fixed  a spell; 
not  by  its  religious  appeal  but  by  the  power  of  the  Maiden’s 
gracious  loveliness.  The  artist  had  not  portrayed  an  un- 
worldly bloodless  Dei  Oenitrix  but  had  preferred  to  dilate 
upon  the  human  beauty  of  that  second  Eve  from  whose  chaste 
body  the  Eternal  Word  was  made  flesh. 

The  statue  on  which  the  June  sunshine  glowed  down  in  this 
Dutch  chapel  had  probably  been  carved  and  gilded  by  some 
competent  and  enthusiastic  journeyman,  who  had  found  in- 
spiration in  the  very  picture  from  which  Coggin ’s  old  print 
was  copied.  To  Harry,  however,  it  was  as  if  a Galatea  had 
warmed  and  quickened  into  life.  His  engraving  at  Bulford 
was  after  all  only  a flat  sheet  of  paper,  printed  brownish-black 
on  white,  and  not  more  than  twelve  inches  by  ten:  but  this 


THE  WANDERER 


187 


queenly  image  was  the  size  of  life,  with  the  flush  of  life  in  the 
cheeks  and  with  the  bounded  contours  of  life  as  well.  Yet  it 
was  instinct  with  the  dignity  of  great  sculpture,  and  was  free 
from  the  slightest  suggestion  of  dressed-up  wax-work.  Harry 
beheld  his  picture  come  to  life;  but  not  to  such  "life  as  his 
own.  It  had  come  to  the  life  wherein  corruption  has  put  on 
incorruption  and  wherein  this  mortal  has  put  on  immortality. 

From  that  morning  Vnwards,  Coggin  practised  the  rule,  ob- 
served by  nearly  all  true  travelers,  of  never  passing  an  open 
church  door  without  taking  a peep  inside.  This  meant  that 
he  examined  the  interior  of  at  least  one  Catholic  church  every 
day.  The  shells  of  these  fanes  were  generally  unpretentious : 
but  when  once  the  threshold  had  been  crossed  there  was  yearly 
always  some  novel  architectural  arrangement,  some  legend  or 
unfamiliar  saint  told  in  stained  glass  or  on  canvas  or  in 
carven  stone,  some  pithy  sentence  in  sonorous  Latin,  some 
significant  change  in  the  color  of  antependium  or  vestment. 
Little  by  little  it  dawned  upon  Harry  that  Catholicism,  which 
he  had  vaguely  regarded  as  a mere  antiquarian  survival,  like 
the  Pyramids  of  Egypt,  was  pulsing  with  life;  and  that  the 
houses  of  death  in  Holland  were  the  huge  chilly  white-washed 
churches  of  the  Reformers,  sealed  up  all  the  week  like  enor- 
mous tombs.  In  the  museums  and  picture-galleries  he  saw 
countless  religious  paintings  which  had  been  executed  centuries 
ago : but  in  the  Catholic  churches,  living  and  breathing  men 
were  chiseling  new  images,  or  plying  brush  and  palette-knife 
on  new  altar-pieces.  This  conviction  of  the  abounding  and 
actual  vitality  of  Catholicism  was  deepened  in  him  one  after- 
noon by  the  sight  of  some  pile-drivers  forcing  tree-trunks, 
over  fifty  feet  long,  perpendicularly  into  the  swampy  ground. 
These  piles,  he  was  told,  were  the  foundations  of  a new  Catho- 
lic church. 

At  Utrecht,  whither  he  ran  for  half  a day  from  Amsterdam, 


188 


THE  HARE 


Harry’s  new  interest  in  ecclesiastical  things  was  whetted  by  a 
recollection  that  he  was  in  the  city  where  the  dank  heresy 
of  Jansen,  Bishop  of  Ypres,  at  last  bore  its  bitter  fruit  of 
schism.  In  the  space  of  a single  morning,  he  visited  not 
only  the  remnant  of  the  ancient  cathedral  which  had 
passed  into  the  Reformers’  hands  but  also  the  cathedrals  of 
the  Jansenist  archbishop,  still  in  schism,  and  of  the  Catholic 
archbishop,  in  communion  with  the  See  of  Rome.  In  his 
early  boyhood,  when  tattered  and  torn  books  of  dogma  and 
polemics  had  made  up  by  far  the  larger  part  of  the  printed 
matter  which  came  under  his  hungry  eye  in  the  marine-store 
yard,  Harry  had  read  omnivorously ; and  now,  like  a steam  of 
bubbles  rising  to  the  surface  of  the  water  from  some  long- 
sunk  wreck  suddenly  ripped  open  by  the  prongs  of  a casual 
anchor,  all  sorts  of  odd  facts  and  fictions  about  these  Jan- 
senists  and  this  town  of  Utrecht  and  the  bull  TJnigenitus  came 
gurgling  up  from  the  deeps  of  his  memory. 

By  the  end  of  his  first  week  in  Holland,  Harry  had  grown 
bold  enough  to  kneel  with  about  a hundred  worshipers  all 
through  a Low  Mass.  But  his  heart  wTas  in  his  mouth.  He 
dreaded  every  moment  that  somebody  would  buttonhole  him. 
In  the  Baptist  Chapel  at  Bulford  it  was  the  custom  to  buzz 
round  every  stranger  like  flies  round  a jam-pot;  and  not  until 
he  had  regained  the  street  did  Harry  lose  his  fear  of  some 
friar  or  Jesuit  pouncing  upon  him. 

The  truth  was  that  these  churches,  like  his  old  engraving 
of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  did  not  interest  Harry  Coggin 
primarily  on  religious  grounds.  He  was  attracted  by  the 
novelty  of  their  warm  decoration  and  varied  ceremonial,  so 
unlike  the  bare  stone  and  the  white  surplices  and  the  plain 
services  in  the  half-dozen  Gothic  churches  which  he  had  seen  in 
Bulford  and  its  neighborhood.  He  was  attracted  also  by  the 
chance  of  hearing  a little  organ-playing.  Most  of  all,  how- 
ever, he  liked  the  churches  for  their  quiet,  their  solitude, 


THE  WANDERER 


189 


their  restfulness.  Apart  altogether  from  religion,  it  was  good 
to  have  some  place  where  one  could  sit  down  between  two 
tramps  through  museums  instead  of  having  to  visit  and  re- 
visit the  cafes  for  too  much  Bavarian  beer. 


CHAPTER  III 


ON  Friday,  June  10th,  just  as  he  was  facing  an  under- 
done steak  in  a restaurant  at  the  corner  of  the 
Damrak,  Harry  felt  a tap  on  his  shoulder.  Look- 
ing up,  he  recognized  a young  man,  evidently  a traveler  like 
himself,  whom  he  had  noticed  three  or  four  times  already  in 
various  public  places.  The  number  of  foreigners  visiting  Hol- 
land so  early  in  the  summer  being  small,  Harry  was  sure  of 
the  young  man’s  identity.  The  young  man  seemed  no  less  sure 
of  Harry’s.  In  a pleasant  and  easy  tone  he  said: 

uWe  are  fated  to  meet.  Let  me  see.  Delft  one ; the  Maurit- 
shuis  at  the  Hague,  two;  the  old  round  castle  at  Leyden, 
three;  the  hut  of  Peter  the  Great  at  Zaandam,  four;  and  this 
table  with  the  raw  steak  on  it,  five.  Five  times,  if  not  six. 
Can  I take  this  vacant  place  beside  you?” 

He  sat  down  and  ordered  a meal,  giving  instructions  in 
French.  Coggin  had  passed  so  many  days  without  conversa- 
tion and  his  mind  was  so  full  of  new  ideas  that  he  was  de- 
lighted to  worry  through  his  beefsteak  in  company  with  a 
lively  compatriot.  The  stranger  had  traveled  widely  in 
France  and  Spain,  in  Italy,  and  in  all  the  German-speaking 
states.  He  seemed  to  have  lived  for  pictures  and  to  have  re- 
tained wonderfully  exact  recollections  of  the  hundreds  he  had 
seen.  About  Munich  he  was  somewhat  contemptuous ; but 
he  glowed  at  the  memory  of  Florence  and  Venice;  of  Paris; 
and  especially  of  Madrid  and  the  Prado.  Harry  Coggin  knew 
practically  nothing  of  Spanish  painters,  save  Murillo,  and  he 
listened  eagerly  to  the  remarks  his  table-companion  poured 
out  concerning  Velasquez  and  Goya  and  a Toledo  artist  called 

190 


THE  WANDERER 


191 


“the  Greek.’ 9 At  the  end  of  the  meal,  the  stranger  burst  out : 

“Look  here.  You  ’ve  seen  all  the  regular  lions  of  Amster- 
dam, the  Podor  Museum  and  the  Arti  et  Amicitiae  and  so  on : 
but  I ’ll  wager  you  haven’t  seen  the  Jan  Six  Gallery! 
There ’s  a marvelous,  unfinished  Rembrandt  there,  and  my 
favorite  Hobbema,  and  Lord  knows  what  else.  Then  there ’s 
another  little  private  museum,  in  the  Heeren-Gracht,  with  a 
stunning  lot  of  the  Little  Masters.  You  can’t  get  in  without 
influence,  but  I have  a letter  here  from  our  Minister  at  the 
Hague.” 

“Minister?”  echoed  Coggin,  mystified.  During  his  life  in 
Bulford  he  had  only  heard  the  phrase  “our  minister”  applied 
to  Pastor  Clupp,  of  the  Baptist  Chapel. 

“Yes.  Our  Minister.  Our  Ambassador,  or  whatever  you 
like  to  call  the  Johnny.  Anyhow,  he ’s  not  a bad  chap  and 
his  letter  always  does  the  trick.  Like  to  come  with  me? 
Right.  Let ’s  mizzle.  ’ ’ 

Before  Harry  could  recover  from  his  astonishment  at  having 
hobnobbed  with  a young  personage  of  such  distinction  that  he 
could  not  only  claim  the  acquaintance  of  ambassadors  but 
even  call  them  Johnnies  and  chaps,  his  new  friend  had  called 
the  waiter  and  paid  the  two  bills.  Coggin’s  expostulations 
were  in  vain.  The  friend  of  ambassadors  simply  ignored 
them  and  began  a lively  chatter  about  the  influence  of  Michael 
Angelo  on  Rubens.  Never  had  Amsterdam  seemed  so  delight- 
ful to  Coggin  as  at  that  moment.  The  people  in  the  streets 
looked  prosperous  and  happy.  The  avenues  of  elms  were  at 
the  height  of  their  June  glory,  and  the  waters  of  the  broad 
canals  twinkled  in  the  sun  and  made  a merry  sound  against 
the  prows  of  the  gaudy  barges. 

While  they  were  waiting  in  the  entrance-hall  of  the  old 
house  once  belonging  to  Burgomaster  Jan  Six,  the  patron  and 
friend  of  Rembrandt,  Harry’s  companion  said: 

“Better  have  your  card  ready,  eh?” 


192 


THE  HARE 


Harry  winced.  He  had  never  boasted  a card  in  his  life. 
Further,  Edward  Redding  had  expressly  begged  him  not  to 
have  cards  engraved  for  his  journey,  but  to  suppress  the  name 
of  Coggin  as  much  as  possible.  Fortunately  the  man-serv- 
ant re-appeared  and  opened  a tome  like  a family  Bible.  This 
turned  out  to  be  the  visitors ’ book.  Taking  up  a quill,  Harry’s 
conductor  forgot  all  about  cards  and  signed  his  name,  in  large, 
easy  writing,  “ Colin  Guy  Withers  Huntly-Martin.  ’ ’ Then  he 
handed  the  pen  to  Harry  and  moved  off  to  examine  a bust  by 
Artus  Quellin. 

With  nobody  looking  over  his  shoulder,  Harry  wrote,  in  his 
stiff,  almost  uncial,  but  rapid  script,  “ Henry  Coggin.”  Mr. 
Huntly-Martin ’s  signature  sprawled  across  seven  inches  of 
paper,  while  Harry ’s  did  not  exceed  an  inch  and  a half.  The 
homely  surname  looked  mean  and  forlorn  indeed  in  such  com- 
pany; for  higher  on  the  same  page  a Roman  princess,  an 
English  archbishop  and  a Russian  Grand  Duke  had  set  their 
august  autographs.  Perhaps  Edward  Redding  was  right. 
Perhaps  the  name  of  Coggin  would  never  do. 

On  completing  the  tour  of  the  house,  it  was  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin  who  conveyed  suitable  largesse  to  the  attendant,  and, 
as  they  came  out  again  upon  the  canal  bank,  he  said:  ‘ 4 That 
was  worth  while.  And  the  pictures  weren’t  the  best  part. 
By  Jove,  I wish  I could  have  burgled  that  old  tulip-shaped 
silver  goblet  and  one  of  those  round  Delft  tiles.  By  the  way, 
remind  me  to  tell  you  later  on  about  the  sort  of  Delft  tiles  they 
have  in  Portugal,  instead  of  mural  paintings.  Now  for  those 
Little  Masters.  Let ’s  slope.” 

After  the  Little  Masters  had  been  visited,  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin  brightened  up  and  exclaimed:  “Why  not  a glass  of 
Advocaat  ? I know  the  best  shop  in  all  Holland  for  Advocaat ; 
and  that  means  the  best  shop  in  the  world.  ’ ’ 

“I ’ve  seen  the  name,”  answered  Coggin  frankly,  “but  I 
don ’t  know  what  Advocaat  is.  Is  it  a kind  of  Schiedam  ? ’ ’ 


THE  WANDERER 


193 


“ No.  It ’s  a kind  of  egg  flip.  It  ’s  made  of  yellows  of 
eggs,  mixed  years  ago  with  old  brandy.  You  can  take  it  with 
a spoon.  The  place  is  quite  near  here.  Let ’s  bolt.  ’ ’ 

Harry  enjoyed  his  glass  of  Advocaat,  which  was  like  a thin 
yellow  cream  redeemed  from  sickliness  by  a little  Cognac; 
but  he  became  uncomfortable  when  his  fellow-drinker  again 
paid  the  reckoning.  A happy  idea  flashed  into  him  and  he 
said: 

‘ ‘ Come.  This  will  not  do.  You  have  been  paying  for  both 
of  us  these  last  three  hours.  I want  my  turn.  Will  you  be 
so  kind  as  to  come  and  dine  with  me  at  my  hotel,  the  Zeven 
Provincien  ? It  ’s  quiet,  but  they  have  good  claret  and  Rhine- 
wine. ’ ’ 

‘T ’m  your  man/’  responded  Mr.  Huntly-Martin  heartily. 
“And  the  sooner  it ’s  feeding-time  the  better.  I loathed  my 
luncheon.  Another  Advocaat  ? No.  Better  not.  Too  sickly. 
Let ’s  hook  it.” 

The  Zeven  Provincien,  to  which  he  had  been  introduced 
by  his  Rotterdam  host,  was  an  inn  whereof  Harry  had  no  cause 
to  be  ashamed.  Most  of  the  clients  were  sedate  and  sub- 
stantial Dutch  people ; so  dinner  was  always  ready  soon  after 
five  o’clock.  Thus  Harry  was  spared  the  expense  and  anxiety 
of  arranging  a special  meal.  As  for  the  wine,  he  had  heard  a 
gentleman,  the  night  before,  praising  the  hotel’s  Chateau 
Brane  Cantenac  ’48.  He  ordered  a bottle  of  this,  which  his 
guest  pronounced  the  best  claret  he  had  tasted  for  a month. 
In  short,  the  dinner  turned  out  a great  success.  Although 
this  was  the  first  time  Harry  had  entertained  a fellow-creature 
outside  his  own  house,  he  did  not  feel  ill  at  ease ; partly  be- 
cause his  recent  dinner-parties  in  Bulford  had  taught  him 
table-manners  and  table-talk  of  the  hour,  and  mainly  because 
Mr.  Huntly-Martin  proved  himself  one  of  the  most  entertain- 
ing and  entertainable  of  guests. 

All  of  a sudden,  however,  Mr,  Huntly-Martin  stopped  talk- 


194 


THE  HARE 


ing  and  became  morose.  Coggin  looked  round.  The  other 
diners,  whose  animated  chatter  had  made  the  table  cheerful, 
were  passing  through  the  doorway.  Meanwhile  the  sun  had 
sunk  so  low  that  the  room  was  growing  shadowy  and  chilly. 

4 4 This  gives  me  the  blues,”  grunted  Mr.  Huntly-Martin. 
1 4 I can ’t  stand  it,  can  you  ? Let ’s  absquotulate.  ’ ' 

Coggin  had  never  heard  the  word  4 4 absquotulate  ’ 9 but  by 
this  time  he  had  guessed  that  his  new  acquaintance  boasted 
a rich  thesaurus  of  synonyms  for  exire  and  that  4 4 mizzle  ’ ’ and 
4 4 slope’ ’ and  “bolt”  and  4 4 hook  it”  all  meant  merely  4 4 go.” 
And  as  he  too  felt  depressed  by  the  surroundings,  he  readily 
agreed  to  a stroll. 

4 4 Ever  been  to  Tiddens’,  eh?”  asked  Huntly-Martin. 

4 4 No.  I should  like  to.”  Coggin  answered.  He  took  it  for 
granted  that  Tiddens’  would  be  a cafe  where  some  special  beer 
or  curacao  or  4 4 half-om-half ” was  to  be  imbibed:  and  there- 
fore he  followed  his  guide  with  pleasant  hopes.  In  the  leafy 
square  called  the  Rembrandt-Plein,  still  warmed  and  bright- 
ened by  the  setting  sun,  he  would  gladly  have  sat  down  to 
watch  the  bustling  people,  from  the  front  of  his  favorite  cafe ; 
but  Mr.  Huntly-Martin  strode  on  and  crossed  the  Binnen 
Amstel  where  it  was  fully  three  hundred  feet  wide.  After  the 
chilly  wind  blowing  along  the  water,  the  narrow  old  streets  on 
the  north  bank  seemed  snug,  especially  as  many  gas  lights 
were  being  lit  in  the  windows.  They  turned  into  a still  nar- 
rower lane. 

4 4 Here  we  are,”  said  Mr.  Huntly-Martin. 

He  had  hardly  spoken  when  a door  was  jerked  inwards, 
as  if  somebody  had  been  eagerly  awaiting  this  visit.  The  place 
did  not  look  like  an  ordinary  cafe,  but  Harry  had  seen  too 
many  unfamiliar  interiors  that  afternoon  to  be  surprised  by 
the  curious  little  vestibule  to  which  they  were  admitted.  It 
was  bare  of  chairs  and  benches.  Indeed,  it  held  nothing  save 
a huge  plaster-of-paris  statue  holding  a lamp.  Harry  felt 


THE  WANDERER 


195 


an  immediate  and  violent  distaste  for  this  big  image. 
Throughout  a whole  week  he  had  been  looking  at  pictures  and 
statues  in  the  public  galleries  and  had  gradually  come  to  per- 
ceive that  some  modem  painters  and  sculptors,  while  pre- 
tending to  represent  the  nude,  were  simply  copying  the  naked. 
This  buxom  plaster-of-paris  lampbearer  did  not  strike  him  as 
a woman  but  as  a mere  female.  It  was  not  a work  of  art  but 
a thing  deliberately  made  for  sale  to  some  ignoble  buyer. 

A very  fat  old  woman  appeared.  As  she  planted  herself 
alongside  the  pedestal,  even  the  statue  seemed  classical  and 
gracious  by  contrast.  The  old  woman  was  very  ugly,  very 
voluble,  very  gaudy.  She  hailed  Mr.  Huntly-Martin  as  if 
he  had  been' a long-lost  son,  gesticulating  a great  deal  with 
her  unpleasant  be  jeweled  hands  and  jerking  out  a lot  of 
French,  too  rapid  for  Harry’s  unpracticed  ears.  He  had  a 
vague  idea  that  the  discussion  had  to  do  with  some  new  kind 
of  punch  which  his  lavish  friend  was  ordering  to  be  brewed. 
At  last  the  woman  turned  to  him  and  said : 

“Diss  vay.” 

She  pushed  open  a swing-door  and  stood  aside  for  the  two 
young  men  to  pass.  Harry  recalled  the  skill  with  which 
Mr.  Huntly-Martin  had  gained  entrance  to  two  other  Dutch 
houses  only  a few  hours  before,  and  he  went  forward  expect- 
ing to  see  some  old-fashioned  kitchen  or  perhaps  a little  col- 
lection of  domestic  brass  and  pottery.  No  doubt,  rich  old 
Amsterdam  was  full  of  treasures  not  mentioned  in  the  guide- 
books. 

A bell  clanged  somewhere,  and  a door  at  the  far  end  of  the 
short  broad  corridor  was  flung  wide.  In  an  instant  Harry, 
with  a smothered  cry  of  horror  and  fear,  leapt  backward.  He 
had  never  heard  or  read  a description  of  such  a scene ; yet  his 
keen,  clear  instinct  revealed  to  him  in  a flash  the  character 
of  the  place  which  he  had  so  innocently  entered.  The  vision 
seemed  to  outrage  not  only  his  eyes,  but  his  ears,  his  nostrils, 


196 


THE  HARE 


and  all  tlie  senses  of  his  body  and  soul.  No  wonder  he  leapt 
back.  It  was  as  though  the  door  of  a fiery  furnace  had  been 
suddenly  plucked  open,  letting  a belch  of  scorching,  blind- 
ing flame  and  choking,  sickening  vapors  drive  full  in  his  face. 
He  felt  a reek  of  vile  tobacco  and  viler  perfumes,  he  heard  a 
shriek  of  lewd  laughter  and  the  pounding  and  shrilling  of  a 
piano  which  seemed  to  be  made  of  iron,  and,  most  horrible  of 
all,  he  saw  through  clouds  of  smoke  the  inmates  of  the  room. 

The  gaudy  proprietress  had  waddled  ahead:  but  Huntly- 
Martin  heard  Coggin’s  dull  cry  and  hurried  back  to  him. 

“What ’s  up?”  he  asked  anxiously.  “111?  Tummy-ache? 
Dutch  cholera?  What  is  it?” 

If  Harry  had  said:  “Look  here,  you  ’re  mistaken.  Hang 
it  all,  I draw  the  line  somewhere.  I thought  Tiddens’  was  a 
cafe  or  an  exhibition.  I ’m  off,”  Mr.  Huntly-Martin  would 
probably  have  felt  ashamed  of  himself  and  would  have  mizzled 
or  hooked  it  or  absquotulated  in  Harry’s  company  to  some 
decent  beer-garden.  But,  although  the  marine-store-dealer’s 
son  had  rapidly  learned  the  table-manners  of  the  day  and 
could  use  the  approved  jargon  about  pictures,  it  was  less  than 
a month  since  Edward  Redding  had  begun  to  extricate  him 
from  the  life  of  a hermit.  So  he  did  not  even  attempt  to 
behave  like  a man  of  the  world.  Instead  of  explaining,  ex- 
postulating, arguing,  he  surrendered  his  whole  mind  to  one 
question — the  question  of  escape,  or  flight,  from  his  captors. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Huntly-Martin  was  merely  an 
immoral  and  idle  young  man  who  had  simply  made  a colossal 
blunder.  He  felt  he  was  trapped  in  an  ante-room  of  hell, 
with  fiends,  hags,  witches,  syrens,  sorceresses,  demons  tingling 
to  pounce  upon  him.  » 

Two  jerks  of  Harry’s  powerful  shoulder  sent  Huntly-Martin 
spinning  back  into  the  house  and  bumped  the  swing-door  out- 
wards. Three  strides  of  Harry’s  lithe  legs  carried  him  to 
the  more  massive  door  which  shut  him  off  from  the  street — 


BOSTON  c6Ll£GE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 

THE  WANDERER  197 

a door  studded  with  nails  and  fastened  by  many  locks  and 
bolts.  He  had  just  laid  hold  of  a sliding  knob  when  the  fright- 
ful old  vrouw  wheezed  alongside  and  jostled  him  away.  For 
a moment  it  looked  as  if  she  was  locking  him  in  more  se- 
curely, and  the  desperate  Coggin  was  confronted,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  with  the  problem  of  whether  he  could  do 
physical  violence  to  a woman.  Springs  clicked,  levers  rattled ; 
and  then  the  door,  pushed  by  a light  wind  outside,  moved  in- 
wards, revealing  the  street  and  the  passers-by. 

“If  he  vish  to  go  Vay,  he  can  go  Vay,”  said  the  furious 
hag  in  a voice  which  seemed  to  be  as  shrill  as  a scream  al- 
though it  was  not  much  louder  than  a hissing  whisper.  “Rut 
go  Vay  like  gentlemans.” 

“Yes,”  rapped  out  Huntly-Martin,  who  had  followed  her. 
“Clear  out  quietly.  Don’t  make  a damned  fool  of  yourself. 
We  don’t  want  the  police.  If  there ’s  a row,  you  ’ll  jolly  well 
be  in  it.  Confound  you,  sir,  what  did  you  mean  by  saying 
you  wanted  to  come  to  Tiddens’?  How  was  I to  know  that 
you  were  a white  marble  statue  of  Innocence,  just  off  the 
pedestal?  Skedaddle.  Cut  it.  Be  off.  And,  next  time, 
mind  whom  you  shove  with  that  shoulder  of  yours,  or  there 
may  be  a bit  of  trouble.  Melt.” 

“Good-night,  babba,  go  Vay  home  to  mudder,”  hissed  the 
old  fury  as  she  thrust  him  into  the  street.  Her  hiss  could  not 
have  been  more  terrible  if  all  the  envenomed  serpents  in  the 
world  had  been  spitting  out  poison  together.  It  seemed  to 
splash  Harry’s  cheek,  like  something  scalding  and  unclean. 

For  fifty  yards  or  so  Harry  stumbled  forward,  heeding 
nothing  but  the  fact  that  he  was  free.  Then  he  perceived 
that  he  was  penetrating  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  haunts  of 
shame.  He  passed  brightly-lighted  cafes  where  grinning 
creatures  sat  in  the  windows  or  stood  at  the  doors  and  hailed 
him  as  he  passed.  Evidently  the  place  where  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin  had  taken  him  was  not  the  vilest  of  the  vile.  It 


198 


THE  HARE 


seemed  as  if  he  would  have  to  retrace  his  steps,  even  at  the 
risk  of  running  the  gauntlet  of  Madame  Tiddens’  rage  and 
scorn  once  more : but  he  came  upon  a short  cross-street  and  at 
the  end  of  it  he  caught  the  gleam  of  a broad  canal. 

Beside  the  cool  water  he  began  to  breathe  more  freely.  But 
where  was  he  to  go?  Not  to  his  inn:  because  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin  would  probably  seek  him  there,  with  more  taunts.  Not 
to  his  favorite  cafe;  because  the  life  of  the  town,  which  had 
appeared  so  honest  and  jolly,  was  now  all  suspect  in  his  excited 
brain.  ** 

He  hastened  on,  running  rather  than  walking,  in  the  un- 
conscious hope  that  he  would  soon  be  in  open  spaces  and  pure 
air.  At  Bulford,  amidst  his  heaviest  griefs,  it  had  been  his 
habit  to  seek  the  quiet  banks  of  the  clear  river  or  his  sacred 
grove  in  Yellowhammer  Lane.  Bulford  was  so  small  a town 
that  in  twenty  minutes  he  could  be  clear  of  the  sickly  gas- 
lamps,  the  stamping  horses,  the  jaded  people,  the  stuffy 
streets;  and,  whenever  he  left  the  moil  behind  and  felt  turf 
instead  of  flagstones  under  his  feet,  he  always  seemed  to  have 
walked  away  from  his  troubles  as  well  as  from  the  houses. 
But  here  in  Amsterdam  it  was  different.  On  and  on  he  went ; 
but  still  he  was  among  people,  people,  people ; houses,  houses, 
houses:  and  although  Deme  might  be  called  a mere  brook  in 
comparison  with  the  Singel  and  the  Rokin  and  the  other  great 
canals,  Harry  began  to  crave  for  its  pure  air  and  sweet  waters, 
like  a traveler  in  a desert. 

His  whole  body  and  soul  suddenly  loathed  the  ubiquitous, 
brackish,  almost  rotting  smell  of  Amsterdam ’s  countless  water- 
ways. "Why  had  he  left  his  own  dear  town,  his  own  breezy 
country-side,  his  books,  his  piano,  his  organ,  his  horse,  his 
simple  pleasures?  Why  had  he  so  weakly  allowed  Mr.  Red- 
ding’s prankish  son  to  turn  him  out  of  house  and  home  and 
fatherland?  It  rushed  over  him  that  he  must  turn  home, 
that  very  moment,  home  again  to  Bulford,  where  he  could 


THE  WANDERER 


199 


once  more  shatter  and  down  his  troubles  in  great  organ- 
music,  rushing  and  roaring  like  a mill-race;  where  he  could 
begin  each  day  with  a deep  dive  into  the  purifying  Deme; 
where  he  could  pelt  across  country  on  the  willing  back  of  his 
best  friend,  Bay  Rum ; where  he  could  live  frugally  and  work 
hard ; where,  although  difficulties  and  dangers  might  be  daily 
visitors,  vice  never  showed  him  her  leering  face.  Yes.  He 
must  go  home,  this  very  night. 

The  wrathful  old  woman’s  parting  gibe  hissed  again  in  his 
head.  “Go  vay  home  to  mudder!”  And  in  that  moment  a 
sword  pierced  his  soul.  “Home  to  mother” ; and  all  the  time 
the  mother  who  bore  him  was  lying  quietly  under  eight  feet 
of  Bulford  earth.  As  for  his  home,  strangers  at  that  very 
moment  were  tearing  down  partitions,  bundling  out  his  old 
possessions  and  painting  their  own  names  over  the  name  of 
Henry  Coggin.  He  had  a lock-up  cubicle  in  a London  furni- 
ture repository,  secured  for  him  by  Edward  Redding,  where 
his  books  and  music  were  stored,  together  with  his  old  piano 
and  a new  box ; but  nowhere  had  he  a home.  Once  more  his 
heart  flamed  with  resentment  against  Edward  Redding.  He 
clenched  his  fists  and  swore  to  himself  that  he  would  be  back 
in  Bulford,  back  in  the  chapel,  back  facing  his  foes,  back  with 
Bay  Rum,  before  forty-eight  hours  could  pass. 

He  felt  for  his  watch ; but  at  the  same  instant  the  bells  of 
the  Wester-Kerk,  a few  streets  away,  began  a rippling  chime. 
Glancing  up  he  recognized  a familiar  building,  with  an  open 
door.  Almost  but  not  quite  unwittingly,  his  hurrying  steps 
had  brought  him  to  that  Catholic  church  wherein  stood  the 
image  of  the  Virgin  Mother  which  had  allured  him  so  strangely 
a day  or  two  before. 

Harry  entered  the  church.  The  nave  was  chill  and  dim: 
but  a hanging  lamp  burned  before  the  High  Altar.  The  tiny, 
restless  flame  was  like  a drop  of  living  blood  from  a Heart 
on  fire  with  love  for  men.  Pressing  nearer,  he  saw  other  lights 


200 


THE  HARE 


twinkling  in  a side-chapel ; and  a moment  later  he  was  kneel- 
ing before  the  Woman,  the  gracious,  lovely  Woman  of  his  old 
engraving  at  Bulford.  He  could  hardly  resist  an  impulse  to 
step  over  the  low  brass  rails  and  to  lay  his  hot  forehead  against 
the  small  white  feet.  The  mats,  the  cushions,  the  chairs,  the 
pictures,  the  candlesticks,  the  walls,  the  windows,  might  be- 
long to  Dutchmen ; but  he  felt  as  if  this  chapel  and  this  image 
were  his  own,  his  very  own.  Without  murmuring  one  prayer, 
without  thinking  one  definite  thought,  he  remained  on  his 
knees,  gazing  into  the  beautiful,  pitiful  face,  until  an  im- 
patient sacristan  loudly  jangled  a bunch  of  keys  and  aroused 
him  from  his  trance. 

Harry  Coggin  walked  back  to  his  hotel  with  a light  tread. 
On  descending  the  steps  of  the  church,  he  had  suddenly  de- 
cided to  leave  Amsterdam  for  Germany  that  very  night.  Not 
that  he  was  afraid.  Throughout  his  life,  cleanliness  of  mind 
and  body  had  been  his  master-passion.  To  Harry  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  existence  of  such  places  as  Tiddens’  was  a rude 
and  sickening  disillusionment,  but  it  was  not  even  the  shadow 
of  a temptation.  All  the  same,  he  accepted  that  evening  ?s  ex- 
perience as  a loud  summons  to  move  on.  He  knew  that  there 
was  a late  train  by  which  he  could  regain  his  honest  quarters 
in  Rotterdam  before  midnight,  and  that  there  was  a steam- 
boat starting  early  the  next  morning,  by  way  of  the  river  Waal, 
for  Nijmegen  and  the  Rhine. 

The  streets  were  full  of  people,  but  Harry  no  longer  shrank 
from  them.  Sanity  and  fairness  had  returned  to  him  and  he 
understood  that,  in  spite  of  the  foul  canker  which  Huntly- 
Martin  had  revealed  to  him,  most  of  the  men  and  women 
he  passed  were  clean-living,  honest  and  industrious.  He  even 
entered  his  favorite  cafe  for  a last  hurried  visit  and  drank 
a farewell  glass  of  lager  beer.  At  the  table  adjoining  his 
own,  an  innumerable  Dutch  family  party  was  merrily  cele- 
brating some  innocent  anniversary.  Yet  Harry  did  not  envy 


THE  WANDERER 


201 


the  bouncing  girls  and  the  light-hearted  lads;  for  he  knew 
already  in  his  heart,  though  not  yet  in  his  head,  that  he 
too  had  a Mother  and  that  for  him  too  a home  was  waiting, 
walled  and  roofed,  warmed  and  garnished. 


CHAPTER  IV 


TAKING  Edward  Redding’s  advice,  Coggin  avoided 
the  great  cities  and  began  his  German  travels  in 
university  towns  and  in  riverside  or  upland  vil- 
lages. So  rigidly  did  he  follow  his  friend’s  counsels  that  he 
did  not  land  at  Cologne  but  supped  and  slept  on  board  the 
steamboat. 

The  bank  of  the  Rhine  at  Bonn  was  the  first  stretch  of 
German  soil  to  be  trodden  by  Harry’s  feet.  At  that  moment 
he  felt  it  good  to  be  alive.  Mounting  eagerly  to  the  bastion 
called  the  Alte  Zoll  he  gazed  across  the  noble  stream,  fully 
five  hundred  yards  wide,  towards  the  peaks  and  saddles  of  the 
Seven  Mountains.  A hot  sun  shone  from  a blue  sky  upon  the 
shimmering  water,  but  the  June  heat  was  tempered  by  a de- 
licious breeze  blowing  from  the  cool  hill-tops  over  the  fresh 
flood.  Here  and  there  the  slopes  wore  a thin  green  verdure, 
not  like  grass;  and  Coggin  knew  that,  for  the  first  time,  he 
was  beholding  vineyards. 

That  day  in  Bonn  was  a day  of  marvels.  The  traveler 
could  have  lingered  for  hours  in  and  around  the  Romanesque 
minster,  with  its  two  choirs  and  its  many  towers  and  its  pil- 
lared cloisters.  He  had  never  seen  a Romanesque  church  be- 
fore, and  its  lines,  its  masses,  its  plan  fascinated.  So  did 
the  miles  of  avenues,  the  vast  buildings  of  the  University, 
the  knots  of  students,  the  fountains,  and  the  old  houses.  With 
some  difficulty  he  gained  admission  to  a strange  dwelling- 
house  in  the  Bonngasse — the  birthplace  of  Beethoven.  As  he 
had  never  visited  Stratford-on-Avon  or  any  other  artistic 
shrine,  his  first  emotions  in  Germany  surprised  him.  He  had 
expected  to  be  merely  interested  in  this  Beethovenhaus ; but 

202 


THE  WANDERER 


203 


when  the  moment  came  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  mighty 
memories  of  the  spot  and  by  his  own  presumption  in  having 
thought  that  he  too  might  write  music  which  should  never 
perish.  Twenty  minutes  later,  when  he  stood  in  the  old 
cemetery  beside  the  plain  grave  of  his  beloved  Schumann  who 
had  died  only  eight  years  before,  this  conviction  of  his  own 
littleness  and  impudence  again  possessed  him.  Would  a pil- 
grim ever  journey,  guide-book  in  hand,  to  the  birth-chamber 
of  Henry  Coggin,  in  Bullock  Yard  at  Bulford?  Would  a 
disciple  ever  uncover  a bowed  head  over  Henry  Coggin ’s  grave 
at  ...  ? 

At  . . . where?  The  lance  of  utter  loneliness  once  more 
drove  its  sharp  length  through  Harry’s  soul!  Till  this 
moment,  in  his  youth  and  strength,  he  had  never  given  a 
thought  to  his  burial-place:  but  all  of  a sudden  he  realized 
that,  wherever  else  it  might  be,  he  could  never  rest  with  his 
own  kindred  in  the  green  acre  above  the  rippling  Deme. 

Shaking  off  these  gloomy  thoughts,  Harry  hastened  back 
through  the  cheerful  market-place  and  was  soon  seated  in  a 
cafe  on  the  bank  of  the  Rhine.  Mid-day  dinner  had  just 
begun  to  be  served — watery  soup,  boiled  beef  with  stewed 
cherries,  an  excellent  veal  cutlet,  and  a kind  of  hot  cake. 
Having  taken  nothing  since  the  night  before  save  a cup  of 
coffee  and  a buttered  roll,  the  young  man  was  so  ravenously 
hungry  that  this  meal  seemed  the  best  he  had  ever  tasted. 
It  was  helped  by  a bottle  of  Drachenblut — the  blood  of  the 
dragon  slain  by  Siegfried  halfway  up  the  castle-topped 
Draehenfels,  which  was  in  full  view  as  Harry  looked  upstream 
through  the  open  window  of  the  cafe.  With  such  legendary 
names  ringing  in  his  ears  and  with  such  sights  before  his  eyes, 
he  had  a pleasing  consciousness  that  he  was  a traveler  in- 
deed. And  this  consciousness  was  sharpened  when  a middle- 
aged  German,  who  spoke  English,  entered  into  affable  con- 
versation. 


204 


THE  HARE 


On  hearing  that  Coggin  had  visited  Utrecht  only  a few 
days  before,  the  German,  who  was  evidently  a person  of 
academic  importance,  questioned  him  closely  about  the  Old 
Catholic  sect  and  seemed  disappointed  at  the  meager  answers 
he  received : but  when  Henry  asked  if  there  were  many  Old 
Catholics  in  Bonn  the  stranger  seemed  more  vexed  and  made 
haste  to  change  the  subject.  Becoming  genial  again,  he  en- 
larged on  several  things  which  were  puzzling  the  young 
Englishman.  He  explained,  for  instance,  the  meaning  and 
uses  of  a gigantic  bowl  or  goblet,  big  enough  for  half-a-dozen 
gold-fish,  which  was  being  ceremoniously  served  to  a party  of 
roystering  students;  and  he  would  have  given  the  recipe  if 
his  English  had  not  failed  him  when  he  tried  to  name  the 
fruits  and  flowers  which  were  thrown  into  the  bowl  with  six 
or  seven  bottles  of  good  Rhenish.  But  his  English  was  again 
serviceable  enough  when  he  proceeded  to  instruct  Harry  in  the 
best  way  of  visiting  the  Seven  Mountains,  the  Volcanic  Eifel, 
and  the  valleys  of  the  Moselle  and  the  Ahr. 

On  Midsummer  Day,  while  an  almost  tropical  rain  was  turn- 
ing the  cobbled  street  outside  his  hotel  window  into  something 
like  a mountain  torrent,  Harry  Coggin  wrote  as  follows  to  Ed- 
ward Redding: 

Limburg,  Nassau , 
June  24,  1864. 

Dear  Mr.  Edward, 

1 hope  you  received  my  second  letter  from  Holland.  It 
was  posted  at  Gouda,  where  I saw  the  windows  by  the 
Crabeths. 

Germany  is  a very  fine  country;  much  finer  than  Holland. 
The  Seven  Mountains  are  beautiful,  but  not  so  savage  and 
grand  as  the  mountains  you  took  me  to  see  last  month,  before 
I left  Bulford.  The  rivers  are  splendid.  I have  seen  the 
Rhine,  the  Ahr,  and  the  Lahn;  and  to-morrow  I hope  to  begin 


THE  WANDERER 


205 


steaming  up  the  Moselle.  Good  light  rowing-boats  are  hard  to 
find  on  these  rivers;  but  I get  my  morning  swim.  In  Holland 
I missed  it  very  much , and  I do  not  strongly  wish  to  see  the 
Canals  again.  The  Dutch  seem  to  be  very  clean  people  at 
first , until  it  occurs  to  you  that  they  scour  their  things  with 
dirty  water. 

The  food  here  is  good  and  very  cheap.  Perhaps  the  soups 
are  rather  poor , but  they  often  give  me  newly-caught  trout  and 
sometimes  venison.  I seldom  pay  more  than  a thaler  for 
supper  and  a bed  and  breakfast.  Even  on  the  steamer  they 
charge  only  two  silbergroschen  for  a cup  of  coffee.  “Silber- 
groschen”  may  sound  important  but,  of  course,  two  silber- 
groschen are  only  about  twopence-half penny.  I take  your  ad- 
vice, Mr.  Edward,  and  always  stay  at  good  inns,  without 
stinting  myself.  For  example  I drink  wine  every  day  at  both 
Mittagessen,  as  they  call  their  mid-day  dinner,  and  at  Aben- 
dessen.  I try  the  wine  of  the  district  I am  in,  nad  it  gen- 
erally costs  about  sevenpence  the  small  bottle.  Nearly  all  the 
wines  are  white;  but  I found  some  good  pale  red  or  pink  wine 
while  I was  walking  up  the  valley  of  the  Ahr,  called  Walporz- 
heimer. 

1 think  I like  the  Germans.  They  are  always  ready  to  be 
friendly  and  to  give  you  their  ideas.  You  were  quite  right 
though,  Mr.  Edward , when  you  said  that  they  would  rather 
practise  their  English  than  let  me  practise  my  German;  and 
sometimes  it  is  difficult  to  shake  them  off  when  you  want  to 
go  about  alone. 

You  said  I was  to  make  myself  known  to  the  organists.  Here 
in  Limburg  I screwed  up  my  courage  to  do  so  and  the  organist 
of  the  cathedral  allowed  me  to  play  yesterday.  The  cathedral 
is  a splendid  old  building  with  seven  towers,  standing  high) 
above  the  river.  I felt  it  was  a great  honor,  being  allowed  to 
play.  It  ivas  strange  to  be  playing  an  organ  once  more. 
There  is  a piano  in  this  inn,  so  I am  quite  musical  again. 


206 


THE  HARE 


Mr.  Edward,  you  told  me  I would  not  like  the  English 
travelers  on  the  Rhine  and  you  were  right.  I never  show  any 
inclination  to  address  them,  hut  nevertheless  they  look  at  me 
as  much  as  to  say  “keep  your  distance  and  we  will  keep  ours.” 
At  Konigswinter  I felt  sorry  for  an  English  gentleman  and 
two  ladies,  because  they  spoke  no  German  and  could  not  ex- 
plain that  they  wanted  horses  instead  of  donkeys  to  go  up  the 
hill:  hilt  when  1 tried  to  he  of  assistance  they  snuhhed  me  for 
my  pains.  On  the  other  hand , there  are  some  English  people 
traveling  in  Rhine-land  who  are  not  stiff  and  particular 
enough.  At  the  Kreuzherg,  behind  Bonn,  I was  shown  round 
the  Servitenkloster  in  company  with  a family  from  London. 
They  made  fun  of  the  Holy  Staircase  ( copied  in  Italian  marble 
from  the  staircase  at  the  Lateran  in  Rome,  which  is  said  to  he 
the  very  staircase  trodden  by  Our  Savior’s  feet  when  He  was 
brought  before  Pontius  Pilate)  and  afterwards  they  made  a 
sad  disturbance.  It  appeared  that,  some  years  ago,  visitors  to 
the  Kreuzherg  used  to  be  shown  the  skeletons  or  mummies  of 
some  dead  monks  in  a vault  under  the  church.  My  com- 
panions had  read  an  account  of  these  corpses  in  a book  by  Tom 
Hood  and  they  were  very  angry  at  hearing  that  the  remains 
were  no  longer  exhibited.  One  of  the  party  kept  demanding 
“to  see  the  Bishop  about  it”  and  another  told  our  guide  that 
they  would  not  mind  paying  something  extra. 

All  the  same,  Mr.  Edward , I like  the  English  best,  in  spite 
of  their  faults.  If  I must  take  a German  name  (as  you  say 
that  all  composers  do,  except  when  they  call  themselves 
Italians)  I shall  still  always  be  an  Englishman  at  heart. 

To-day  it  is  raining  hard,  so  1 shall  spend  most  of  the  after- 
noon studying  German.  I have  begun  to  make  a manuscript 
collection  of  words  and  phrases  which  are  not  in  the  ordinary 
dictionaries,  and  I find  this  task  very  interesting  and  instruc- 
tive. Nor  have  I forgotten  that  you  want  some  German  pot- 
tery and  such  things . There  was  a fair  at  Ober-Lahnstein  and 


THE  WANDERER 


207 


1 found  some  curious  pewter,  earthenware  and  glass  there . 

Trusting  and  praying  that  you  and  your  esteemed  parents 
are  enjoying  good  health,  and  once  more  thanking  you  for 
favors  which  I can  never  hope  to  repay, 

I remain,  Dear  Mr.  Edward, 

Tour  obliged  and  obedient  servant , 
Henry  Coggin. 

Before  receiving  this  letter,  Edward  Redding  had  begun  to 
feel  a little  ashamed  of  his  raid  on  Bulford  and  more  than  a 
little  doubtful  of  his  plan  of  turning  Henry  Coggin  into  a Ger- 
man. But  there  was  a strong  strain  of  obstinacy  in  his  char- 
acter, and  he  hated  turning  back  or  admitting  himself  to  have 
been  in  the  wrong.  So  Harry’s  letter  was  good^to  read.  It 
restored  his  complacency.  Events  were  proving  that  he  had 
done  right  in  sending  Harry  to  Germany.  But  Edward  Red- 
ding did  not  show  Coggin ’s  letter  to  his  father. 


CHAPTER  Y 


THE  costliness  of  his  days  in  Holland  notwithstanding, 
Harry  Coggin  found,  at  the  end  of  his  sixth  week 
on  the  Continent,  that  he  had  spent  a good  deal  less 
than  the  twenty  pounds  a month  prescribed  by  Edward  Red- 
ding. He  gave  tips  liberally  and  always  drank  something 
better  than  the  cheapest  tischwein:  yet  his  expenses  in  the 
little  German  towns  never  surpassed  three  pounds  a week. 
This  discovery  so  troubled  his  excessive  scrupulousness  that, 
before  falling  asleep  one  night  in  early  July,  he  said  to  him- 
self : 

“ To-morrow,  God  willing,  I will  have  a great  day.  After 
my  swim  I will  order  a big  breakfast,  with  cold  bacon,  such 
as  I used  to  have  in  Bulford.  Then  I will  get  permission 
to  play  the  church-organ.  And  after  that  I will  find  a horse, 
for  a good  gallop.  ’ ’ 

Harry ’s  plunge  into  the  gentle  Moselle  was  glorious.  As  he 
came  to  the  surface  and  dashed  the  water  from  his  eyes  he  saw 
the  big  sun  staring  at  him  through  the  one  window  of  a ruined 
castle  on  a hill,  high  above  the  vineyards.  Breakfast  did  not 
ex'actly  reproduce  his  Bulford  repast,  but  the  cold  sausages 
with  their  terrible  names  of  Blutwurst,  Leberwurst  and 
Schlachtwurst  were  fascinating  and  tasty. 

A thaler  to  the  sacristan,  and  six  silbergrosehen  to  the 
sacristan’s  little  son  for  blowing  the  bellows,  sufficed  to  ar- 
range the  affair  of  the  organ ; and,  as  the  parish  priest  was  ab- 
sent on  business,  Harry  drew  music  from  the  strange  little  in- 
strument, to  his  heart’s  great  easing,  for  nearly  an  hour.  He 
was  about  to  leave  the  church  when  it  occurred  to  him  that 

208 


THE  WANDERER 


209 


the  sacristan  might  be  able  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  hiring  a 
horse;  and  after  some  misunderstandings  on  both  sides  the 
boy  organ-blower  guided  the  young  Englishman  to  some 
shabby  stables  in  a back  street  of  the  village. 

The  four  poor  beasts  which  met  Harry’s  disappointed  g'aze 
were  jaded  post-horses,  mournfully  awaiting  their  turn  be- 
tween the  shafts  of  the  diligence.  He  was  about  to  move  away 
when  the  job-master  appeared.  A lively  discussion  arose  and 
at  last  the  man  wrote  some  lines  on  a sheet  of  paper,  which 
he  despatched  somewhither  by  the  hand  of  the  boy.  Then, 
opening  an  inner  door,  he  revealed,  in  a clean  stall,  a beautiful 
black  mare  which  would  not  have  disgraced  an  English  stable. 

Harry ’s  command  of  the  German  language  had  so  much  im- 
proved that  he  was  able  to  begin  bargaining.  The  man, 
however,  shook  his  head  scornfully  and  muttered  some  re- 
marks which  his  hearer  was  still  trying  to  understand  when 
a loud  voice  sounded  without  and  a broad-shouldered  German 
came  striding  in.  The  new-comer’s  gait  and  manner  showed 
at  once  that  he  belonged  to  the  squire  class. 

“Guten  morgen,  mein  Herr,”  began  Coggin  nervously, 
when  the  stranger  had  stared  at  him  for  ten  seconds  or  so  with- 
out a word.  “Wiirden  Sie  freundlichst  ...” 

“Bitte,  sprechen  Sie  English.  Ich  verstehe  Englisch.  Ich 
bin  zweimal  in  London  gewesen,”  said  the  other. 

Harry  had  no  difficulty  in  translating  the  answer  and  was 
immensey  relieved  at  being  able  to  speak  English  with  this 
brawny  gentleman  who  had  been  twice  in  London.  Framing 
his  sentences  clearly  and  simply,  he  explained  that  for  six 
weeks  he  had  not  mounted  a horse  and  that  he  was  trying  to 
find  a hack  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  added  modestly  that  he 
perceived  there  had  been  a mistake  and  he  congratulated  the 
owner  on  his  splendid  black  mare. 

The  German  was  pleased  and  they  were  soon  talking  horses 
with  much  animation.  In  the  end  the  mare  was  saddled  and 


210 


THE  HARE 


led  forth  to  a spot  where  the  vineclad  slopes  shrank  back  from 
the  winding  Moselle,  leaving  a flat  green  strath  between  the 
hills  and  the  river.  Clambering  rather  clumsily  into  the 
saddle  the  mare’s  heavy  master  proudly  showed  Coggin  her 
paces.  After  galloping  the  whole  length  of  the  strath  and 
back,  in  a showy  style,  he  dismounted  and  invited  the  English- 
man to  take  his  place. 

The  dainty  beast  whinnied  with  pleasure  at  the  touch  of 
Harry’s  lithe  limbs  and  at  the  caress  he  gave  her  as  he  vaulted 
lightly  upon  a back  which  had  too  often  endured  a rider  at 
least  two  stone  too  heavy  for  her.  This  black  mare  and  the 
black-haired  Harry  Coggin  seemed  made  one  for  the  other. 
Off  they  went  like  the  wind.  The  end  of  the  strath  was  gained 
in  a flash ; and  thence  they  flew  on  along  the  high-road,  skirt- 
ing  the  river  till  they  had  turned  a headland  and  disappeared 
from  sight.  Five  minutes  later  they  came  racing  back  and 
Harry  leapt  to  the  ground  so  radiant  with  delight  that  he  failed 
to  notice  the  relief  of  the  German,  who  had  begun  to  think 
that  his  black  mare  was  gone  forever. 

Having  thus  failed  to  lighten  his  purse  by  more  than  the 
trifles  he  had  bestowed  as  trinkgeld,  Harry  ordered  at  his  mid- 
day dinner  a bottle  of  Schloss  Johannisberger,  ’51,  to  follow 
his  halbflasch  of  thin  young  Moselwein.  The  meal  was  served 
in  a summer-arbor,  clad  with  freely-growing  vines,  on  the 
river-bank.  The  diner  ought  to  have  been  content  ; for  the 
food  was  excellent  and  he  preferred  solitude  to  the  best  of 
company.  Yet  he  could  not  abandon  himself  to  simple  happi- 
ness. Six  weeks  had  passed  in  idleness.  If  only  he  could  have 
helped  to  shell  the  peas  or  to  wash  his  own  plates,  he  would 
have  felt  less  useless  and  guilty. 

An  exclamation  from  the  road,  which  ran  a little  above  the 
arbor,  made  the  lonely  diner  glance  up.  He  saw  the  black 
mare’s  German  owner  looking  down  at  him.  Harry  rose  at 


THE  WANDERER 


211 


once  and  opened  the  wicket-gate.  The  German,  after  hesitat- 
ing a moment,  came  into  the  garden  and  sat  down  at  the 
dinner-table,  where  Harry,  seizing  the  opportunity  of 
acknowledging  the  loan  of  the  mare,  very  politely  pressed  him 
to  have  a glass  of  wine. 

The  German  was  on  the  point  of  refusing,  somewhat  curtly, 
when  he  caught  sight  of  the  label  on  the  bottle — a label  show- 
ing that  the  wine  was  from  the  renowned  estate  of  Prince 
Metternich.  With  a start  of  surprise  he  pushed  forward  a 
goblet  and  allowed  Harry  to  fill  it  full.  Having  sniffed  and 
sipped  it  with  reverent  attention,  he  half  emptied  the  glass 
and  straightway  became  a different  man.  Not  that  the  Fiirst 
von  Metternischer  Cabinet-wein  could  affect  him  so  much  and 
so  soon.  It  was  rather  that  the  label  and  the  seal  shed  luster 
on  the  young  Englishman  and  dispelled  the  German’s  doubts. 
The  inexpensiveness  of  Harry’s  neat  clothes  and  his  deferen- 
tial bearing  had  given  this  Rhenish  Junker  pause;  but  sud- 
denly he  remembered  that  simplicity  of  dress  and  manner  was 
the  vogue  among  the  younger  English  aristocracy  and  he  re- 
solved to  go  on  with  the  project  he  had  formed  an  hour  before. 

At  the  end  of  half-an-hour’s  dialogue  in  English  and  Ger- 
man, Harry  understood  what  was  asked  of  him.  This  new 
acquaintance,  the  Freiherr  von  Ehrenwald-Bendelheim,  was 
anxious  to  arrange  a race-meeting  on  English  lines.  The  long 
flat  strath  was  a splendid  racecourse.  Two  hundred  and  fifty 
thalers  would  be  given  by  the  Freiherr  as  prize-money.  Was 
Harry  able  tp  stay  in  the  neighborhood  a week  or  so  longer, 
and  to  direct  the  whole  affair? 

Coggin’s  first  impulse  was  to  beg  off  and  to  get  out  of  the 
village  at  once.  But  a fierce  desire,  helped  by  the  Schloss 
Johannisberger,  to  be  busy  somehow,  suddenly  shriveled  up 
both  his  Puritanism  and  his  pettiness.  After  all,  why  should 
he  not  do  this?  Much  of  his  life  had  been  spent  among 
ostlers  and  other  horsey  people;  and,  although  he  had  only 


212 


THE  HARE 


seen  Bulford  Races  as  one  of  the  plebs,  his  prehensile  wits  and 
retentive  memory  had  made  him  understand  racing  as  if  to 
the  manner  bom.  Of  course  in  1864  there  was  no  handicap- 
ping ; and  most  race-meetings  were  on  simple  lines.  So  Harry 
filled  his  own  and  the  Freiherr’s  glasses  once  more  and  boldly 
said  “Yes.” 

The  days  which  followed  were  a long  delight  to  Harry  and 
a season  of  pride  for  the  Freiherr.  The  fame  of  the  pale 
black-haired  young  Englishman,  who  invariably  swam  a kilo- 
meter in  the  Moselle  before  sitting  down  to  eat  a breakfast 
for  three,  flew  along  the  valley.  The  Anzeige  of  every  little 
town  published  tempting  paragraphs  about  the  forthcoming 
races.  Everybody  except  Harry  knew  that  the  meeting  was 
being  got  up  to  spite  a certain  upstart  Baron — neugebcicken, 
or  new-baked,  the  Freiherr  dubbed  him — who  had  lately 
arranged  an  ostentatious  gala  regardless  of  expense ; and  this 
lent  a keener  piquancy  to  the  event. 

Just  above  the  narrow  end  of  the  strath,  the  conformation 
of  the  hill-side  was  so  suitable  for  a grand  stand  that  Nature 
seemed  to  have  had  the  Freiherr’s  race-day  in  view  for  thou- 
sands of  years.  The  cou||e  presented  many  difficulties,  but 
Harry  was  equal  to  them  all.  He  often  amazed  the  gentry  by 
throwing  off  his  coat  and  showing  the  rustic  carpenters  what 
to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  This  caused  uneasiness  until  the 
Freiherr  explained  that  he  had  seen  in  England  a certain 
young  Count  Cecil,  belonging  to  the  most  ancient  nobility,  who 
had  washed  his  own  shirt  and  baked  his  own  bread  in  the 
Australian  gold-diggings.  On  hearing  that  the  Freiherr  had 
said  this,  the  village  schoolmaster  turned  up  an  old  magazine 
article  about  racing  in  England  and  it  soon  began  to  be  whis- 
pered about  that  the  Freiherr’s  young  English  friend  was  a 
near  relative  of  the  hochwohlgeboren  Lords  Derby  and  Epsom 
who  owned  all  the  most  famous  English  race-horses. 

There  were  only  three  races  on  the  card : but,  according  to 


THE  WANDERER 


213 


the  custom  of  the  time,  each  race  was  run  in  three  heats,  thus 
giving  a good  afternoon’s  racing.  The  question  of  two-year- 
olds  did  not  arise,  as  nobody  had  any  in  training.  The 
Freiherr’s  two  hundred  and  fifty  thalers,  which  were  worth 
less  than  forty  pounds  in  English  money,  sufficed  to  provide 
prizes  of  a hundred  thalers  each  for  the  two  open  races  while 
the  remaining  fifty  purchased  a respectable  little  silver  gob- 
let for  the  Officers’  Cup. 

The  great  afternoon  came  and  went.  For  the  Freiherr  it 
was  a resounding  triumph.  As  for  Harry,  the  Anzeige  de- 
clared that  he  was  covered  with  glory ; and  so  said  everybody. 
Had  he  not  so  grouped  what  seemed  to  be  the  hopelessly  ill- 
assorted  competitors  in  the  short-distance  race  that  the  final 
heat  was  the  most  exciting  struggle  of  the  day  ? Had  he  not, 
when  riding  himself  in  the  long-distance  race,  carried  the 
Freiherr’s  English  mare  Dark  Dollie  to  easy  victory,  running 
clean  away  from  everything  and  everybody?  Above  all,  when 
the  blacksmith’s  idiot  son  fell  into  the  river,  had  not  the 
Englishman  plunged  instantly  to  the  rescue  and  saved  the 
queer  little  life? 

While  the  country  folk  buzzed  round  him  after  he  had  put 
on  dry  clothes,  Harry  himself  did  not  feel  conceited.  He  had 
fished  too  many  people  out  of  canals  and  rivers  to  grow  ex- 
cited over  one  more  or  less.  Nor  was  there  much  to  boast 
of  in  his  winning  the  long-distance  event  against  such  a field. 
Indeed,  Coggin  had  formed  a poor  opinion  of  the  Germans  as 
horsemasters ; and  he  thought  that  even  the  officers  had  small 
ground  for  feeling  proud  of  their  mounts.  What  pleased 
him  most  was  that  the  people  had  enjoyed  themselves  and  that 
the  Freiherr  was  more  than  satisfied. 

Somebody  bawled  a command  and  the  crowd  fell  back,  re- 
vealing an  elderly  stranger  whose  importance  was  proved  by 
the  fact  that  the  officers  themselves  made  way  for  him.  Harry, 


214 


THE  HARE 


who  had  been  partially  instructed  by  the  Freiherr  in  Ger- 
man modes  of  address,  thought  he  heard  some  one  say  the  words 
wirklicher  Geheimrath , meaning  Veritable  Privy-Councilor. 
The  great  man  hulked  forward  and  drew  Harry  on  one  side. 

“I  am  glad  to  make  your  lordship’s  acquaintance,”  he  be- 
gan, addressing  Harry  in  English  which  would  have  been 
good  if  he  had  been  able  to  pronounce  6 and  g and  th. 
“ Freiherr  von  Ehrenwald  has  told  me  apout  you.  I wish 
more  Englishmen  would  travel  in  Shermany  and  learn  Sher- 
man.” 

“I  speak  German  very  badly,  Excellency,”  said  Harry. 
And  he  was  about  to  explain  that  he  was  not  a lord  when  the 
stranger  interrupted  him  with  a blunt  question  about  the  war 
with  Denmark.  Why  had  so  many  Englishmen  gone  mad  in 
favor  of  the  Danes?  “Her  Royal  Highness  the  Princess  of 
Wales  is  very  pewtiful,”  he  said,  “but  there  is  no  Danish 
plud  in  her  veins.”  He  went  on  to  declare  that  the  people 
of  Schleswig-Holstein  would  be  far  happier  under  Prussian 
rule  and  with  German  culture.  Then  he  praised  Lord  Palmer- 
ston for  recognizing  hard  facts.  What  would  have  happened, 
he  asked,  if  England  had  fought  Prussia  on  Denmark’s  be- 
half? “Unless  France  and  Austria  and  Switzerland  and 
Pelgium  and  Holland  and  Russia  had  joined  you,  your  won- 
derful navy  could  not  have  plockaded  Prussia,  and  you  had 
not  an  army  to  fight  us  on  lant.  ” 

Harry,  who  had  followed  the  short  course  of  the  Prussian- 
Danish  war  with  great  eagerness  up  to  his  leaving  England, 
but  had  not  seen  a report  of  the  speech  made  by  Lord  Palmer- 
ston only  a week  before,  respectfully  began  to  make  comment, 
but  the  great  man  again  cut  him  short  and  poured  out  a long 
harangue  in  praise  of  a certain  Herr  von  Bismarck.  He  fin- 
ished by  saying:  “It  is  good  that  you  travel  in  Shermany. 
Go  pack  to  England  and  tell  your  compatriots  that  our  two 
countries  must  be  always  friends.  Who  is  your  protection 


THE  WANDERER 


215 


against  Russia?  It  is  Prussia.  What  watches  France,  your 
old  enemy?  It  is  Prussia.  We  are  cousins,  of  the  same  plud. 
Schleswig-Holstein  will  soon  be  contented  with  the  change, 
like  your  Scotland  and  your  Wales/’ 

“We  have  also  Ireland  and  the  Fenians,”  objected  Coggin. 
But  at  that  moment  the  Freiherr  joined  them;  and  close  on 
his  heels  pushed  two  beaming,  well-groomed  young  English- 
men, entirely  lacking  reverence  for  the  divinity  which  hedges 
a wirklicher  Geheimrat. 

“Look  here,  I say,”  blurted  out  the  first  young  English- 
man. “Who  the  devil  are  you?” 

“Yes,”  cried  the  second,  “that ’s  what  we  want  to  know. 
We  heard  about  your  races  at  Coblenz.  We  were  sick  of  the 
beastly  Rhine  and  the  beastly  steamer  so  we  cut  along  here. 
The  beastly  steamer  stuck  near  Cochem, — not  enough  water — 
and  we  couldn’t  get  anything  except  a beastly  diligence,  full 
of  fleas.” 

The  word  ‘ ‘ beastly  ’ ’ was  only  just  establishing  itself  in  the 
English  language;  and  Harry  had  never  heard  it  used  save 
in  its  dictionary  sense.  Before  he  could  think  of  any  answer 
to  make,  the  second  Englishman  fired  another  volley  of  ques- 
tions, with  “beastly”  in  every  one  of  them. 

“I  wish  your  lordship  goot  evening,”  said  the  Veritable 
Privy-Councilor,  deeply  offended.  And  he  went  away  with 
the  Freiherr,  leaving  Harry  still  tongue-tied. 

“There!”  chuckled  the  first  Englishman.  “We ’ve  picked 
up  the  scent.  He ’s  a lord.” 

“I ’m  not  a lord,”  retorted  Harry,  becoming  exasperated. 
And  after  the  two  young  men,  who  were  evidently  very  keen 
sportsmen,  had  mentioned  Eton  and  Harrow,  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge, and  had  pressed  him  beyond  endurance,  he  suddenly 
snapped  out:  “I ’m  a poor  man’s  son.  I only  went  to  school 
for  a fortnight.  I ’ve  never  seen  Oxford  or  Cambridge  in  my 
life.” 


216 


THE  HARE 


“Fiddlesticks,”  said  the  elder. 

“Gammon,”  said  the  younger.  And  after  a pause,  he 
asked : ‘ ‘ Then  what ’s  your  name  ? I suppose  you  ’ll  say  it ’s 
William  Smith  or  John  Jones.” 

“My  name  is  Coggin,”  Harry  answered. 

“Exactly,”  laughed  the  younger.  “So  they  told  us  at  the 
beastly  inn.  That ’s  what  excites  our  curiosity.  Of  course 
we  twigged  it  at  once.” 

“I  don’t  understand,”  said  Harry  uneasily.  “Twigged 
what  ? ’ ’ 

“Why,  the  name  Coggin  of  course.  We  ’re  not  fools,  or 
as  blind  as  bats.  Come,  come,  your  lorship.  Cogg-in  . . . 
or  In-cog  ...  we ’ve  got  it,  now  haven’t  we?” 

Harry  stood  thunderstruck  at  this  undreamt-of  but  plausi- 
ble theory.  While  still  speaking,  the  younger  Englishman 
had  been  rapidly  scribbling  with  a pencil.  He  held  up  a card 
and  Harry  read: 

COGGIN 

INCOO 

“My  name  is  Coggin,  Henry  Coggin,  and  nothing  else,” 
said  Harry  desperately.  “It ’s  the  only  name  I ever  had. ’ ’ 

“Hang  it  all,  don’t  be  so  beastly  unsociable,”  said  his  cross- 
examiner. “Your  race-meeting  was  stunning  and  we  ’re 
proud  of  you.  I ’ll  tell  you  who  we  are  ourselves.  Just  turn 
over  the  card.  My  name ’s  Brasher — Sir  Richard  Brasher.  I 
hunt  the  Digg  county,  y’  know.  My  friend  is  Mr.  Copping- 
ton,  the  Honorable  Everard  Coppington,  Lord  Knott’s  only 
son — Lord  Knott  of  the  Jockey  Club,  y’  know.  You ’ve  told 
these  beastly  German  fellows  who  you  are,  and  I ’m  sure  you  ’ll 
tell  us  too.” 

Harry  retreated,  in  dismay  and  utter  bewilderment. 

‘ ‘ Of  course,  if  you  have  reasons  for  secrecy,  we  have  enough 
delicacy  to  respect  them,”  put  in  Mr.  Coppington.  “But  I 


THE  WANDERER 


217 


hope  you  will  pardon  the  liberty  if  I make  a single  observation. 
Unless  I am  greatly  mistaken  you  are  Lord  Sarrow  of  Sar- 
rowden.  Everybody  knows  that  Lord  Sarrow  has  been  roving 
incog,  about  the  Continent  ever  since  he  came  into  the  title. 
If  I ’m  right,  let  me  assure  your  lordship  that  nobody  speaks 
ill  of  your  father  any  more.  The  affair  was  explained,  the 
cloud  lifted;  and  you  would  return  to  find  nothing  but  wel- 
comes and  kindness.  ’ ’ 

4 ‘ This  is  all  a ridiculous  mistake,”  cried  Harry,  in  conster- 
nation. And,  as  they  shrugged  their  shoulders  in  good- 
humored  incredulity,  he  added  wildly : ‘ 6 If  you  want  to  know 
the  truth,  my  father  dealt  in  rags  and  bones.” 

“And  your  grandfather  was  Burke,  the  poisoner,”  said  Sir 
Richard  Brasher.  “And  your  mother  took  in  washing.  And 
your  great-uncle  was  a tripe-dresser,  And  your  twin-brother 
is  an  undertaker’s  mute,  with  a red  nose.  Very  well,  Lord 
Sarrow;  if  you  haven’t  the  grace  to  reciprocate  what  was 
merely  the  friendly  act  of  two  fellow-countrymen  you  can 
jolly  well  take  yourself  to  Coventry.  We  are  spending  the 
night  here — at  the  other  inn,  not  yours — and  if  you  are 
ashamed  of  yourself  by  the  morning  you  can  come  and  say  so. 
All  I ’ve  got  to  say  is  that  it  was  a damned  good  afternoon’s 
racing ; and  you  can  go  to  the  devil.  ’ 9 


CHAPTER  VI 


IF  Henry  Coggin  had  been  a charlatan  and  an  adventurer 
he  would  have  found  it  easy  to  deepen  the  mystery  which 
had  begun  to  enshroud  him  and  to  reap  a rich  harvest 
of  pleasures  and  profits.  He  had  read  more  than  one  novel 
wherein  shady  Englishmen  had  found  Germany  a happy 
hunting-ground : but,  as  he  was  simply  an  honest  and  modest 
man,  he  felt  no  itch  to  copy  these  flashy  humbugs  of  romance. 

The  Freiherr  had  invited  Harry  to  dine  that  evening  at  the 
Schloss,  three  miles  away,  with  a numerous  party.  What  was 
to  be  done?  The  Veritable  Privy-Councilor  would  certainly 
be  there ; and  perhaps  Sir  Richard  Brasher  and  the  Honorable 
Everard  Coppington  as  well.  Harry  promptly  decided  on 
flight.  Returning  to  the  inn  he  wrote  a very  polite  letter  to 
the  Freiherr,  explaining  that  he  was  suddenly  forced  to  go 
away.  He  made  a respectful  suggestion  concerning  Dark 
Dollie ’s  prize-money  and  enclosed  a hundred  thalers  with  the 
request  that  a two-kilometer  race  should  be  run  annually  un- 
der the  odd  name  of  “The  Bay  Rum  Cup.” 

Having  swallowed  a hasty  meal  and  paid  the  reckoning  at 
his  inn,  Harry  bespoke  the  services  of  a lad  to  carry  his 
luggage  over  the  hill  to  the  nearest  steamboat-pier.  The 
Moselle  made  one  of  her  great  bends  at  that  point,  and  many 
miles  could  be  saved  by  climbing  the  narrow  neck  of  the  prom- 
ontory and  catching  the  steamer  on  the  other  side.  When 
nearly  all  the  people  were  engrossed  in  rustic  merry-makings 
on  the  strath,  Harry  and  his  porter  stole  almost  unheeded  out 
of  the  village  and  up  through  the  vineyards.  But  as  soon 
as  the  summit  was  reached,  Harry  stopped  and  said  in  Ger- 
man : 

“Here  are  twenty  silbergroschen.  Give  me  my  rucksack. 

218 


THE  WANDERER  219 

If  I do  not  return  here  before  the  church  clock  strikes  eight, 
you  may  go  back  home.” 

The  rucksack  or  pouch  was  not  very  heavy ; for  most  of  the 
traveler’s  baggage  had  been  left  in  a gasthaus  at  Oberwesel, 
on  the  Rhine.  Abandoning  his  intention  of  catching  the 
steamer  Harry  went  forward  at  a great  pace  until  the  by-road 
steepened  and  began  winding  up  to  the  table-land  of  the 
Hohe-Eifel.  He  gained  a good  and  fairly  level  road  at  a 
height  of  perhaps  seven  or  eight  hundred  feet  above  the 
Moselle ; and  there  a cart,  coming  from  the  east,  overtook  him 
and  gave  him  a lift  and  a rest  for  a couple  of  hours.  When  the 
carter  had  to  turn  aside  into  a by-lane,  he  gave  his  strange  pas- 
senger full  directions  concerning  an  inn,  not  far  away:  but 
Harry  preferred  to  tramp  on  through  the  cool  dusk,  under  the 
tranquil  stars — the  self-same  stars  that  had  often  beamed  down 
pitifully  upon  him  during  his  grievous  pacings  to  and  fro  in 
Yellowhammer  Lane. 

The  nights  were  at  their  shortest;  and  soon  the  half -dark 
made  room  for  a glorious  dawn  and  a flaming  sunrise.  Just  as 
the  wayfarer ’s  strength  was  failing,  his  instinct  told  him  that 
he  was  near  water.  The  road  dipped  and  he  found  himself 
close  to  a hurrying  stream  gurgling  against  a dark  cliff  which 
supported  a broken  castle.  Five  minutes  later  he  was  splash- 
ing in  a crystal  pool;  and  straightway  Sir  Richard  and  the 
Honorable  Everard  lost  their  terrors,  like  nightmares  when 
the  night  is  past. 

Harry  rambled  about  the  Eifel  for  a week,  tramping  nearly 
thirty  miles  a day.  The  highland  air  did  him  good.  No 
whistle  of  steamboat  or  of  railway-engine  broke  the  mountain’s 
ancient  peace.  As  the  high  roads  were  made  of  basaltic  lava, 
harder  than  a marble  pavement,  which  grew  fearfully  hot  un- 
der the  July  sun,  he  cut  across  the  grain  of  the  country,  by 
field-paths  and  mere  wheel-tracks ; yet  he  generally  contrived 


220 


THE  HARE 


to  walk  at  dinner-time  or  at  supper-time  into  some  white- 
washed inn  where  there  were  eggs  and  trout,  hams  and  fowls, 
cheese  and  conserves,  as  well  as  young,  sharp  thirst-quenching 
wine. 

Rising  above  meadows  as  luxuriant  as  any  in  the  rich  vale 
of  the  Deme,  Harry  came,  again  and  again,  upon  strange  long- 
cold  volcanoes.  In  one  old  crater  he  watched  men  cutting 
peat;  in  another  haymakers  were  busy;  while  the  third  and 
fourth  held  deep  and  silent  lakes.  To  go  up-hill  instead  of 
down  to  find  a lake  was  odd.  It  seemed  like  going  upstairs  to 
a wine-cellar.  But  the  climb  merely  served  to  heighten  the 
delight  of  a plunge  into  those  pure  and  mysterious  waters, 
nestling  like  soft  blue  birds  in  Vulcan’s  forsaken  forges. 

One  day,  Harry  sat  basking  in  the  sun  after  a long  swim 
in  the  circular  Pulvermaar,  a crater-lake  of  about  a hundred 
acres,  set  in  pine-woods.  He  was  turning  over  with  his  toes 
the  large-grained  black  volcanic  sand  which  formed  the  beach, 
when  he  heard  wheels  on  the  lava  road  a furlong  away.  He 
grabbed  his  clothes  and  sought  shelter. 

Hardly  was  the  bather’s  toilet  finished  when  a German, 
rather  absurdly  dressed  as  if  for  feats  of  mountaineering  in 
the  Dolomites,  pushed  slowly  through  the  trees  to  the  edge 
of  the  water.  He  seemed  to  have  come  in  quest  of  something 
which  he  could  not  find,  and  his  disappointment  was  so  great 
that  Harry  felt  bound  to  step  forward  with  an  offer  of  help. 

4 'Good!”  cried  the  stranger.  And,  speaking  a little  Eng- 
lish, mixed  with  much  German,  he  explained  that  Harry  was 
the  very  gentleman  he  was  seeking ; that  he  had  read,  two  days 
previously,  an  account  of  the  races  in  a Trier  newspaper;  that, 
only  an  hour  before,  in  the  inn  at  Gillenfeld,  he  had  heard  that 
a young  Englishman  answering  to  Harry’s  description  was  in 
the  neighborhood ; and  that  he  had  posted  at  once  to  the  lake, 
where  he  felt  sure  of  finding  him.  Finally,  he  insisted  on 


THE  WANDERER 


221 


giving  Harry  a seat  in  Ms  carriage,  as  they  were  both  going  to 
Monreal,  in  the  Eltzthal,  twenty  miles  away. 

Fortunately  for  Harry,  the  stranger  was  one  of  those  Numer- 
ous Germans  who  preferred  talking  to  listening.  His  favorite 
phrase  seemed  to  be  ‘ ‘ was  halten  Sie  ? ’ ’ meaning 4 4 what  is  your 
opinion  ?”,  but  he  never  waited  for  the  opinion  to  be  given. 
The  young  Englishman  was  beginning  to  feel  the  strain  of 
listening  to  a polyglot  discourse  in  a ramshackle  carriage  when 
an  unexpected  question  was  put  to  him.  Did  he  know  the 
Domprobst  Carl  Kingsley? 

Coggin  had  often  heard  of  a clergyman  named  Charles 
Kingsley  but  he  could  not  fathom  the  meaning  of  Domprobst. 
Luckily  a German  word  for  “author”  came  to  his  mind;  so 
he  asked  if  this  Charles  Kingsley  happened  to  be  a schrift- 
steller 

Yes.  It  was  the  same.  The  German  had  “two  times  read 
‘ Vestvard  Ho!*”  Good.  Well,  in  this  very  country,  this 
self-same  Volcanic  Eifel  through  which  they  were  trundling, 
Harry’s  new  acquaintance  had  met  the  Herr  Pastor  Kingsley 
and,  had  helped  to  get  him  out  of  prison. 

“Prison?”  echoed  Harry,  in  blank  astonishment. 

“Yes.  Prison.”  Herr  Kingsley  had  been  mistaken  for  a 
spy  or  an  assassin.  His  collection  of  bits  of  basalt  and  tufa 
and  other  geological  specimens,  hidden  in  old  socks,  had  been 
mistaken  for  an  incendiary’s  stock-in-trade  and  the  reverend! 
schriftsteller  had  been  flung  into  gaol. 

4 4 But  do  not  too  much  blame  us,  ’ ’ added  the  German,  after 
narrating  his  own  part  in  the  affair  at  great  length.  “You 
say  this  would  not  have  happened  in  England.  It  remains  to 
know.  In  my  father’s  lifetime,  our  Fatherland  was  invaded 
by  the  French.  They  pillaged  our  cities,  they  ruined  our 
churches.  Some  day  we  must  fight  the  French.  Then  Ger- 
many will  be  once  more  united  and  will  become  rich  and  great 


222 


THE  HARE 


— as  great  and  rich  as  your  England.  And  I beg  you,  mein 
Herr,  to  remember  that  we  are  at  war  even  now.  It  is  a little 
war,  this  war  with  Denmark : but  we  could  not  be  sure  that  the 
Emperor  Napoleon,  and  even  you  English  too,  would  not  join 
the  Danes  against  us.  No,  no.  Here  in  Germany  we  cannot 
take  risks.  Our  police  must  know  who  are  the  strangers  who 
come  among  us.” 

In  speaking  thus,  the  deliverer  of  Charles  Kingsley  was 
merely  boasting  of  a good  deed  and  airing  his  opinions,  and 
he  had  not  the  faintest  suspicion  that  any  mystery  had  re- 
cently grown  up  around  this  young  Englishman  who  sat  facing 
him  on  the  opposite  seat  of  the  carriage.  Harry  Coggin,  how- 
ever, took  it  for  granted  that  trouble  was  in  the  air.  What  was 
he  to  do?  How  could  he  prove  that  the  name  of  Coggin  was 
not  a play  on  incog?  A cloud  seemed  to  have  come  over  the 
sun.  Why  was  it  that  misunderstandings  followed  him 
whithersoever  he  went  ? 

Although  the  German  immediately  turned  the  talk  first  to 
Mexico  and  then  to  Louis  Napoleon’s  policy  in  the  Papal 
States,  Harry  was  not  fully  reassured.  He  insisted  on  paying 
for  the  rough  mittagsmahl  which  they  ate  in  a poor  inn  at  the 
foot  of  the  Wolfsberg;  but  when  Monreal  was  reached,  he 
gave  his  companion  the  slip,  and  without  staying  to  see  the 
two  castles,  just  caught  the  diligence  to  Niedermendig,  whence 
he  could  easily  regain  the  busy  Rhine. 

In  one  of  his  tattered  books  Harry,  when  still  a little  boy, 
had  read  a marvelous  account  of  the  beer-cellars  at  Nieder- 
mendig— those  miles  of  galleries,  sixty  feet  underground, 
quarried  by  the  Romans  in  the  solid  lava.  After  visiting  the 
caverns  by  torch-light  and  after  tasting  the  famous  beer,  the 
fugitive  again  recovered  his  common  sense.  Provided  he  took 
care  never  again  to  get  out  of  his  social  depth,  who  could  harm 
him?  His  passport  and  his  letters  of  credit  were  in  order. 
All  the  same  he  thanked  Heaven  that  Edward  Redding  had 


THE  WANDERER 


223 


not  arrived  on  the  scene,  by  some  terrible  chance,  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  was  being  taken  for  a lord;  for  Heaven  alone 
knew  what  immeasurable  prank  would  have  followed. 

It  was  Harry ’s  practice  to  pay  his  hotel-bills  over-night,  so 
that  he  could  take  the  road  at  cock-crow.  He  left  Nierder- 
mendig  while  the  roses  of  dawn  were  still  unfolding  in  the 
eastern  sky.  After  an  hour  of  brisk  going  he  caught  sight  of 
the  noble  Laacher  See,  or  Lake  of  Laach,  just  as  the  sun 
cleared  the  hill-top  on  the  further  side  of  the  water. 

For  many  days  the  traveler  had  longed  for  this  moment; 
and  the  fruition  was  even  better  than  his  hopes.  The  crater- 
tarns  of  the  Eifel  were  only  “maare,”  or  meres;  but  this  was 
a < ‘ See,  ’ ’ like  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  with  stubby  little  blue  waves 
clop-clopping  on  the  foam-flecked  beach.  Round  the  lake  rose 
five  extinct  volcanoes,  some  wooded,  some  bare;  and  to  the 
left  stood  the  glorious  old  church  of  Our  Lady  of  Laach  with  a 
dome  and  five  towers. 

As  it  was  so  early,  Harry  decided  to  tramp  round  the  lake, 
a circuit  of  about  five  miles,  and  to  reach  the  church  in  time 
for  Mass.  He  had  accomplished  half  the  journey  when  he 
met,  coming  down  from  the  village  of  Wassenach,  a boy  with 
so  honest  a face  that  Harry  felt  he  could  trust  him.  The  lad 
readily  promised  to  look  after  the  Englishman’s  clothes:  and 
soon  Harry  Coggin  was  reveling  in  the  deep  water. 

A mad  idea  came  to  the  bather.  This  was  to  be  his  last 
experience  of  the  volcanic  lakes.  On  the  morrow  he  would 
probably  find  nothing  better  for  his  morning  splash  than  a 
German  bedroom  basin,  about  as  big  as  a soup-plate.  Why 
should  he  not  swim  right  across  the  lake? 

Having  shouted  new  orders  to  the  admiring  farm-boy, 
Harry  struck  out.  If  he  had  realized  that  he  had  two  miles 
to  go  he  would  have  resisted  the  temptation:  but  the  roofs 
of  the  abbey-church,  wet  with  the  night ’s  heavy  dew  and  flash- 


221 


THE  HARE 


ing  like  a jeweled  reliquary  in  the  slanting  beams  of  the  sun, 
seemed  less  than  a thousand  yards  away.  Never  troubling 
to  husband  his  forces,  off  he  went,  lunging  at  the  pretty  crests 
of  the  bobbing  waves  and  sporting  like  a porpoise. 

Suddenty  he  knew  that  he  was  tired  and  that  it  would  be 
prudent  to  swim  ashore  at  once.  He  glanced  to  the  left. 
There  was  the  boy,  trotting  along  with  Harry’s  clothes  and 
rucksack:  but  the  left  bank  was  as  far  away  as  the  church 
at  the  end  of  the  lake.  He  turned  to  the  right ; but  the  right 
bank  seemed  the  most  distant  of  all.  Then  he  understood  that 
he  had  reached  the  very  middle  of  the  See  and  that  he,  who 
had  saved  so  many  others  from  watery  graves,  was  himself  in 
grave  peril  of  drowning.  The  cold  clear  water  enfeebled  him 
and  refused  to  buoy  him  up.  He  gave  a shout,  which  echoed 
mockingly  among  the  dead  volcanoes;  but  nobody  heard  it 
save  the  trotting  and  trusting  little  boy  on  the  froth-strewn 
shore. 

Keeping  a level  head  despite  the  hopelessness  of  his  task, 
Harry  settled  down  to  work.  He  employed  every  device  he 
had  ever  tried  or  heard  of  for  economizing  strength  but  this 
false  and  lisping  water  seemed  to  be  his  enemy,  eager  to 
suck  him  down  and  to  gloat  over  his  bones  forever.  In  de- 
spair, he  cried  aloud  once  more.  This  time  the  lad  on  the 
beach  understood.  Harry  saw  him  drop  clothes  and  hat, 
stick  and  rucksack,  and  then  watched  him  racing  like  a wild 
colt  towards  the  abbey,  until  trees  and  bushes  hid  him  from 
sight. 

Harry  was  alone.  In  his  gray  life  he  had  been  called  to 
endure  many  an  hour  of  bitter  solitude,  but  never  such  a mo- 
ment as  this.  The  strong  young  arms,  the  tough  young  legs, 
the  stout  young  heart  could  hold  out  no  more.  Death  by 
drowning  had  never  terrified  him  in  he  past.  Indeed  it  had 
even  appealed  to  his  cleanly  nature  as  something  wholesome 
and  tranquil  and  sweet.  Yet,  in  this  fearful  moment,  he 


THE  WANDERER 


225 


wilted  with  horror;  because  he  remembered  that  the  deep- 
down  bed  of  this  pitiless  lake,  with  its  long-drowned  rocks 
which  no  mortal  eye  had  even  seen,  was  not  a bit  of  England 
but  a bit  of  Germany;  and  his  quailing  spirit  cried  out  des- 
perately for  home,  for  home. 

From  one  of  the  five  towers  a silvery  bell  slowly  began  toss- 
ing out  small  clear  sounds,  like  polished  pebbles  into  the  lake. 
A moment  afterwards  the  excited  boy  and  a tall  man  in  black 
came  rushing  toward^  the  water.  Harry  laughed  bitterly. 
What  could  they  do  ? Not  a boat  was  to  be  seen.  It  was  too 
late.  The  swimmer  closed  his  eyes  . . . 

A great  splash,  as  if  a giant  had  taken  a header  from  the 
top  of  one  of  the  towers,  brought  Harry  back  to  himself.  The 
boy  was  gesticulating  on  the  beach : but  where  was  the  man  in 
black  ? He  had  vanished.  No  . . . what  was  that  black  knob 
floating  on  the  wavelets  ? In  a flash,  Harry  guessed  what  had 
happened.  A powerful  swimmer  was  urging  forward  to  the 
rescue.  The  knowledge  gave  him  not  only  new  hope  but  new 
strength.  Instantly  the  water  seemed  less  deathly  cold  and 
he  struck  out  briskly  once  more.  Very  soon  he  perceived  that 
he  had  swum  better  than  he  knew  and  that  barely  a quarter 
of  a mile  separated  him  from  safety.  Then  the  spurt  died 
down;  and  hope  would  have  died  with  it  if  a great  hearty 
voice  had  not  bawled  out  in  English: 

“ Never  say  die!  I ’m  coming !” 

Harry  had  worked  his  way  so  near  to  the  western  shore  that 
he  was  now  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  the  See  lay  calmly 
around  him.  His  deliverer’s  words,  which  had  been  shouted 
along  the  surface  of  the  water,  sounded  in  Harry’s  ears  as  if 
they  had  been  spoken  only  fifty  yards  away.  If  he  had  known 
that  there  was  still  a furlong  of  struggle  before  him,  he  would 
have  collapsed  and  gone  under;  but  he  did  not  know  and  he 
battled  on.  His  legs  had  ceased  to  serve  him.  All  he  could 
do  was  to  clutch  at  the  water  and  jerk  himself  forward ; even 


226 


THE  HARE 


as  a soldier  whose  legs  have  been  shot  away  grasps  with  des- 
perate hands  the  tufts  of  grass  before  him  and  tugs  himself, 
faint  and  bleeding,  up  a fire-swept  slope  towards  some  ditch 
or  thicket. 

“I  'll  race  you  home,"  cried  the  hearty  voice. 

A giant,  with  hair  blacker  than  Harry’s  own,  was  along- 
side him,  near  enough  to  dash  to  the  rescue  if  he  should  be 
wanted.  The  challenge  not  only  drove  into  Harry’s  ears  but 
seemed  to  rush  through  his  veins  and  along  his  marrow,  like 
a warm  elixir  of  life.  The  danger  was  over  now ; and  instead 
of  choking  and  sinking  down  to  rot  in  the  dregs  of  a deep 
German  lake,  he  was  within  arm’s  length  of  a jovial  English- 
man. 

The  race  began.  From  the  age  of  seven  Harry  had  been  so 
marvelous  a swimmer  that  no  competitor  had  ever  kept  up 
with  him.  Only  a year  before,  he  had  easily  out-paced  a 
famous  professional  in  an  early-morning  swim  in  the  river 
Deme.  And  so,  at  the  word  4 'off’’  roared  by  the  black- 
headed man,  Harry  drove  forward  mightily,  determined  to 
win.  But  his  rescuer,  quickly  discerning  how  the  matter 
stood,  cunningly  pretended  to  be  a poor  swimmer  and  very 
nervous,  until  they  were  both  paddling  along  as  gently  as  two 
young  ladies. 

Coggin’s  feet  struck  something  hard.  He  stopped,  and 
found  himself  stumbling  on  a submerged  pavement  of  smooth 
lava.  His  rival  was  less  lucky  and  fell  floundering,  from  the 
edge  of  the  shelf-like  rock,  back  into  deep  water.  Harry 
shoved  on  till  the  pavement  ceased  and  then  with  a score  of 
exultant  strokes,  gained  the  furthest  beach  and  fell  full  length 
on  the  warm  stones. 

When  Harry  came  to  himself,  he  saw  that  his  rucksack  had 
been  shoved  like  a pillow  under  his  head,  while  a bulky  black 
coat  had  been  swathed  round  his  body.  As  he  opened  his 


THE  WANDERER 


227 


eyes,  somebody  raised  him  up  gently  and  pressed  to  his  lips  a 
cordial.  Harry  drank  it  eagerly.  It  seemed  to  be  old  brandy, 
sweetened  a little  with  honey  and  strongly  tinctured  with  mint 
and  other  herbs.  He  stared  in  front  of  him.  Close  at  hand 
was  the  blue-eyed  boy  from  Wassenach.  Beyond  stretched  the 
round  blue  lake ; and  the  scene  was  closed  by  the  dead  volca- 
noes. But  whose  was  this  great  arm  supporting  his  head  and 
whose  this  black  cloak  ? 

“Mortuus  erat  et  revixit ” murmured  a big  but  gentle  voice, 
close  in  Coggin’s  ear.  “Deo  gr alias.” 

Both  the  sound  and  the  sense  startled  Coggin.  Latin! 
Somebody  was  talking  his  beloved  Latin.  In  Latin,  some- 
body had  said  “He  was  dead  and  is  alive  again.  Thanks  be 
to  God.’ ’ Harry  wrenched  himself  free  and  looked  behind. 
There  on  the  stones  sat  the  giant  who  had  plunged  into  the 
See  to  help  him:  a black-haired,  clear-skinned,  superb  giant, 
wearing  nothing  save  a coarse  shirt  and  breeches. 

“Good!”  the  Titan  cried.  “If  you  ’re  well  enough  to  jump 
like  that,  I can  take  back  my  habit.  Thanks.  I ’ll  rub  you 
down  with  this  rough  towel.  I found  it  in  your  bag.  ’ ’ 

Feeling  horribly  shaky,  Harry  dressed  himself  with  diffi- 
culty. From  time  to  time  he  was  aware  of  a vast  but  nimble 
hand  softly  pushing  aside  his  own  numbed  fingers  and  fasten- 
ing for  him  some  buckle  or  button.  When  his  teeth  had  ceased 
chattering  he  turned  to  thank  his  benefactor  and  beheld,  with 
fresh  amazement,  the  towering  figure  of  a monk,  in  a black 
habit.  On  a boulder  somebody  had  set  out  neatly  the  pro- 
visions from  Harry’s  rucksack — half  a white  loaf,  two  hard- 
boiled  eggs,  some  thin  slices  of  black  rye-bread,  and  a large 
pat  of  butter.  To  this  repast  there  had  been  added  a smoking 
little  brown  pipkin,  a bottle  and  a black  flagon. 

“Try  to  eat,”  said  the  monk.  “You ’ve  to  thank  this  clever 
boy  of  yours  for  the  soup  and  wine  and  for  the  drop  of  Bene- 
dictine. While  we  were  both  in  the  water  he  rushed  up  to 


223 


THE  HARE 


the  abbey  and  brought  this  good  stuff  back  with  him.  Drink 
this.  It ’s  red  whine — Assmanshauser,  more  warming  and 
generous  than  the  white.  Here ’s  a spoon  for  the  soup. 9 ’ 

‘'You  are  going  to  eat  too?”  said  Harry.  “There  seems 
plenty  for  all  three  of  us.” 

“No.  I can’t.  You  see,  I haven’t  said  my  Mass  yet.  I 
happened  to  be  walking  by  the  lake,  saying  my  Office,  when 
this  good  kid  of  yours  butted  right  into  me  and  told  me  there 
was  a gentleman  drowning.  I suppose  you  can  spare  him  a 
slice  of  bread-and-butter  and  one  of  these  eggs  and  a sip  of 
wine?  But  don’t  talk.  Stuff  yourself.  Guzzle.  You  need 
it.” 

Harry  could  not  have  talked  if  he  had  tried.  In  his  omniv- 
orous reading  he  had  come  across  a good  deal  about  monks 
and  had  studied  an  illustrated  History  of  Costume  so  thor- 
oughly that  he  easily  identified  the  giant  as  a son  of  St.  Bene- 
dict. But,  having  never  before  seen  one  in  the  flesh,  he  had 
taken  it  for  granted  that  monks  must  be  either  red-nosed, 
paunchy  gluttons  and  tipplers,  roaring  with  laughter  over 
some  merry  story  and  emptying  straw-covered  wine-flasks,  or 
emaciated  fanatics  principally  occupied  in  digging  their  own 
graves.  The  Hercules  before  him  was  certainly  a genuine 
monk : for  had  he  not  just  spoken  of  saying  his  Mass  and  his 
Office?  Yet  he  seemed  as  jolly  as  Mr.  Huntly-Martin  or  Sir 
Richard  Brasher  or  the  Honorable  Everard  Coppington,  as 
well  as  a good  deal  more  happy  than  all  the  three  put  to- 
gether. Harry  had  heard  that  monks  hated  cold  water:  yet 
this  monk  swam  like  a fish.  Strangest  fact  of  all,  he  talked 
slang,  such  as  “stuff’  and  “guzzle.” 

“When  you ’ve  finished,  let  Hans  or  Gottlieb,  or  Fritz  or 
Karl  bring  everything  up  to  the  abbey,”  said  the  Benedictine. 
“You  must  rest  an  hour  or  two  with  us.” 

Comforted  by  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  good  meal,  Harry 
once  more  felt  that  he  had  his  wits  about  him.  He  thanked 


THE  WANDERER 


m 


the  monk  fervently,  and  then  added:  “ Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I 
have  read  in  a guide-book  that  the  Benedictine  Abbey  of  Maria- 
Laach  was  suppressed  in  1802  and  that  there  are  no  monks 
left.” 

“ Quite  so,”  the  other  answered.  “But  let  us  be  thankful 
that  the  French  revolutionary  armies  spared  this  beautiful 
church,  seeing  that  they  wrought  such  frightful  destruction 
elsewhere.  They  destroyed  some  cathedrals  utterly,  such  as 
Bruges  and  Boulogne  and  Arras ; and  they  knocked  down  one 
Rhineland  cathedral  at  auction  for  less  than  a hundred  pounds, 
to  be  carted  away  as  building  materials.  It  is  true  that  the 
Benedictines  are  at  Laach  no  longer:  but  you  will  find  kind 
hosts  and  a welcome.  You  see,  the  Jesuits  have  bought  the 
place  and  they  took  it  over  only  a few  months  ago,  for  a school. 
There  is  a big  turning-out  and  clearing-up  going  on.  You 
see  that  I am  a Benedictine?  Well,  I happen  to  be  interested, 
in  music — not  exactly  waltzes  and  polkas,  you  know — and  I ’ve 
come  here  to  see  whether  anything  in  my  line  happens  to  have 
been  hidden  away.  Hallo!  Half -past  six.  My  Mass.  Be 
sure  to  come  and  have  a cup  of  coffee  with  me  at  half -past 
seven. 9 ’ 9 


CHAPTER  VII 


HENRY  COGGIN  approached  the  Abbey  of  Laach 
timidly,  intending  to  rest  there  for  three  hours. 
He  stayed  three  weeks.  On  first  hearing  from  the 
big  Benedictine  that  he  was  to  be  the  guest  of  Jesuits,  even 
for  one  short  summer  morning,  Harry  had  felt  alarmed. 
Jesuits,  as  he  imagined  them,  were  inscrutable,  sinister,  velvet- 
footed beings,  who  had  never  been  young  and  never  grew 
old.  While  he  was  too  well  informed  to  believe  all  he  had 
heard  against  them,  Harry  would  nevertheless  have  preferred 
to  slink  away:  for  how  could  he  be  sure  that  his  absurd  tri- 
umphs at  the  races  had  not  reached  this  Abbey  in  some  ex- 
aggerated version?  Gratitude,  however,  compelled  him  to 
accept  the  invitation  to  a cup  of  coffee : so  he  faced  the  ordeal 
and  found  it  pure  delight. 

Although  the  pupils  of  the  new  school  were  not  in  residence, 
the  monastery  seemed  full  of  life.  Most  of  the  Jesuits,  of 
course,  were  Germans : but  among  them  worked  a Spaniard,  two 
Irishmen,  a Brazilian  and  even  a Russian.  After  the  first 
strangeness  had  worn  away,  Harry  felt  marvelously  at  home 
with  these  men.  In  many  respects  he  had  recaptured  the 
atmosphere  of  his  beloved  house  in  far-off  Bulford.  There 
were  the  same  habits  of  early  rising,  of  hardness,  of  long-sus- 
tained industry,  of  order,  of  cleanliness:  the  same  keen  enjoy- 
ment of  one  good  meal  a day : the  same  relish  for  brief  recre- 
ation after  long  labor:  the  same  background  of  books  and 
pictures  and — thanks  to  the  Benedictine — even  of  music.  Al- 
though he  immediately  made  it  known  that  he  was  not  a 
Catholic,  nobody  argued  with  him  about  religion.  As  the 

230 


THE  WANDERER 


231 


Jesuit  Fathers  read  their  breviaries  in  private  instead  of  sing- 
ing the  Divine  Office  in  choir,  there  were  no  high  functions 
in  the  superb  twelfth-century  church:  but  Harry  invariably 
assisted  at  the  Mass  celebrated  by  his  friend  the  Benedictine, 
and  he  spent  at  least  an  hour  of  every  day  in  the  cool  and 
silent  Romanesque  nave,  looking  up  into  the  dome  or  at  the 
Roman  monoliths,  quarried  a thousand  years  before  the  foun- 
dations of  the  church  were  laid. 

After  his  cup  of  coffee  with  the  monk,  on  his  first  morning 
at  Laach,  and  while  he  was  still  fully  determined  to  be  on  the 
road  again  within  an  hour  or  two,  Harry  Coggin  was  taken 
round  the  monastery.  At  several  points  he  noticed  heaps  of 
discarded  odds  and  ends,  ready  to  be  burned  or  given  away. 
His  twelve  years’  experience  of  upholstering  and  cabinet- 
making and  china-riveting  could  not  be  suppressed ; so  he  very 
modestly  offered  a few  suggestions  for  turning  some  of  the 
lumber  to  good  account.  In  the  end,  joiners  were  summoned 
from  Coblenz  and  Harry  found  himself  that  night  established 
in  a monk’s  cell.  He  had  always  pictured  a cell  as  a tiny 
vaulted  chamber,  hid  behind  cold  walls  of  enormous  thickness 
and  furnished  with  a skull  and  some  ponderous  volumes : but 
his  cell  at  Laach  was  a large  and  cheerful  room  overlooking 
the  blue  waters  of  the  sunlit  lake.  A crucifix  hung  on  the 
wall  and  the  few  engravings  all  depicted  religious  scenes. 
Otherwise  the  cell  was  furnished  pretty  much  after  the  man- 
ner of  his  own  plain  bedroom  at  Bulford. 

Days  grew  to  weeks.  Never  in  his  life  before  had  Harry 
been  continuously  so  happy.  Foot-rule  in  hand,  he  went 
everywhere,  planning  and  contriving;  and  there  was  never  a 
day  when  he  did  not  also  put  in  a few  hours’  good  work  with 
saw  and  plane  and  hammer.  Under  the  Benedictine’s  guid- 
ance he  broke  his  way  into  a new  province  of  music — plain- 
chant  and  the  polyphonic  masterpieces  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. He  acquired  the  unfamiliar  notation  and  tonalities  with 


232 


THE  HARE 


surprising  quickness  and  was  soon  able  to  help  his  master  by 
copying  MSS.  and  by  jotting  down  the  discrepancies  between 
them.  Unfortunately  the  good  Jesuits  were  neither  musicians 
nor  antiquaries:  and  therefore  Coggin’s  acquaintance  with 
plain-chant  was  all  on  paper  while  he  was  at  Maria-Laach. 

When  August  began  and  he  could  not  for  shame  linger  at 
the  Abbey  any  longer,  Harry  resolutely  wore  down  the  pro- 
tests of  his  kind  hosts  and  fixed  the  next  morning  for  de- 
parture. A plan  for  requiting  the  hospitality  he  had  received 
occurred  to.  him.  Despite  his  fertility  of  suggestion,  there  still 
remained  a medley  of  objects  of  which  no  decorous  use  could 
be  made  by  the  Fathers.  There  were  two  gilded  Cupids  from 
an  eighteenth-century  altar;  several  old  pictures,  especially 
mythological  subjects  and,  portraits  of  long-dead  burgesses; 
stamped  leather ; ancient  locks  and  keys ; pewter  vessels,  dis- 
colored and  distorted;  moldings,  knobs,  a huge  hour-glass; 
and  even  a few  pieces  of  once  grandiose  furniture. 

Remembering  that  Edward  Redding  had  asked  for  some 
old  German  things,  Harry  respectfully  offered  to  purchase  a 
selection  of  this  cast-away  stuff  for  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thalers,  or  about  twenty  guineas  of  English  money.  The 
Superior,  after  vainly  entreating  his  guest  to  take  away  the 
goods  as  a present,  at  last  reluctantly  accepted  one  hundred 
thalers.  But  Harry  had  hardly  discharged  one  obligation 
when  he  was  entangled  in  another.  The  Fathers  presented 
him  with  a bursting  wallet  containing  letters  of  introduction 
and  commendation  to-  abbeys  and  others  religious  houses  all 
over  Germany  and  Austria. 

Quitting  Laach  at  dawn,  and  halting  for  a night  at  Oberwesel 
where  his  larger  luggage  had  been  stored,  Harry  steamed  far 
up  the  Rhine,  past  the  Cat  and  the  Lorelei  and  the  Mouse- 
Tower,  through  Bingen  and  Mayence  and  Worms,  to  Mann- 
heim. He  held  fast,  however,  to  the  promise  he  had  given 
Edward  Redding  and  did  not  sleep  in  any  of  the  big  towns. 


THE  WANDERER 


233 


Passing  southward  he  entered  the  Black  Forest  just  as  the 
August  heats  were  becoming  unbearable. 

At  Baden-Baden,  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  Coggin  made  so 
bold  as  to  present  himself,  with  an  introduction  which  he  had 
obtained,  at  the  house  of  Clara  Schumann  in  the  Lichtenthal : 
but  the  famous  lady  was  away,  having  fled  from  the  crowd  of 
gamblers  and  bathers  to  some  quiet  spot  in  the  Forest.  Harry 
did  not  presume  to  track  her  down : but  he  too  hated  the  ex- 
travagant and  restless  life  of  Baden-Baden  so  heartily  that  he 
turned  his  face  to  the  mountains. 

At  the  end  of  August  the  traveler  reckoned  that  during  his 
eleven  weeks  in  Germany  he  had  walked  fully  a thousand  miles 
along  river  valleys  and,  through  pine-forests  and  over  moun- 
tains. He  perfected  a contrivance  for  binding  to  his  left  wrist 
a small  dictionary  from  which  he  memorized  words  and 
phrases  as  he  trudged  along.  Every  day  he  made  a point  of 
paying  some  educated  native  to  read  and  speak  with  him  until 
his  command  of  German  idiom  and  pronunciation  enabled 
him  to  talk  easily  and  to  listen  confidently.  In  the  village 
inns  there  were  always  tourists  with  whom  to  converse : and  on 
the  roads  he  often  became  a fellow-tramp  with  German  stu- 
dents making  walking-tours  in  loquacious  parties. 

Coggin  had  begun  to  cherish  an  affectionate  reverence  for 
German  scholars:  because  he  had  already  met  some  noble 
specimens  of  the  class.  They  had  impressed  him  as  poor, 
carelessly  dressed,  uncouth  of  manners,  absent-minded,  unprac- 
tical; yet  they  were  redeemed  by  humble  wisdom  and  trans- 
figured by  noble  idealism.  And  so,  whenever  he  ran  against  a 
party  of  students,  in  shabby  clothes,  walking  barefoot  to  save 
their  boots,  he  took  it  for  granted  that  such  dusty  striplings 
were  necessarily  the  worthy  successors  of  those  old  scholars  who 
preferred  to  pass  the  dog-days  drinking  co’ol  store-beer  in 
Heidelberg  and  Bonn.  Little  by  little,  however,  he  began  to 
perceive  that  a change  was  coming  over  Germany.  Even  al- 


234 


THE  HARE 


lowing  for  the  carnality  of  youth,  the  youngsters  were  evi- 
dently more  materialistic,  more  arrogant  than  the  oldsters. 
As  Edward  Redding  had  foretold,  they  stuck  to  Harry  like 
leeches,  always  taking  care  to  air  their  English  and  never  let- 
ting him  practise  his  German.  Yet  they  nursed  against  Eng- 
land jealous  hatred  which  they  hardly  attempted  to  conceal. 

One  noontide,  as  he  was  resting  beside  the  little  lake  called 
the  Titisee,  Harry  suddenly  felt  the  good  air  shut  away  from 
him  by  the  big  bodies  of  half  a dozen  broad-backed  young 
Germans  who  surrounded  him,  all  talking  at  once.  They  had 
heard  in  the  village  that  an  Englishman,  after  climbing  the 
Feldberg,  was  gone  to  the  Titisee ; and  they  simply  made  him 
a present  of  their  company  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  At  first 
Coggin  could  not  feel  much  displeased,  although  he  had  wished 
to  explore  the  mountains  alone.  The  youths  had  good  voices 
and  they  sang  some  difficult  part-songs  in  a delightful  man- 
ner as  they  walked  along.  Probably  they  could  not  have  shown 
a hundred  thalers  if  they  had  emptied  all  their  six  purses  on 
the  table  together ; and  Harry  could  not  help  comparing  them 
favorably  with  a young  Englishman  he  had  encountered  in 
Baden-Baden,  who  confessed  to  having  spent  and  gambled 
away  fifteen  hundred  thalers  in  less  than  a week. 

One  of  the  party,  an  open-faced,  likable  young  man,  was 
called  the  Worm;  which  sounded  unjust  till  Harry  remem- 
bered that  this  German  word  meant  “ Dragon.’ ’ The  Worm 
and  another  youth,  nicknamed  the  Love-sick  Lion,  chatted  with 
Coggin  very  pleasantly  about  the  Black  Forest  and  their  ad- 
ventures in  it.  At  last,  however,  they  were  shoved  out  of  the 
conversation  by  a blond,  weak-eyed  person,  dubbed  the  Croco- 
dile, who  was  better  dressed  than  his  companions.  The 
Crocodile  disdained  mere  travel-talk  and  began  putting  ques- 
tions about  academic  life  in  England.  He  demanded  to  know 
whether  it  was  true,  as  he  had  lately  read,  that  the  students 
at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  spent  most  of  their  time  rowing 


235 


THE  WANDERER 

boat-races  and  whether  the  young  men  at  the  University  of 
Exeter  know  nothing  of  Greek,  preferring  to  go  out  with  small, 
dogs  to  kill  rats. 

When  the  Englishman  gently  explained  that  there  was  no 
University  of  Exeter,  but  that  there  was  a college  of  that  name 
at  Oxford,  the  Crocodile  showed  great  annoyance.  He  was 
accustomed  to  be  regarded  as  infallible.  In  his  chagrin,  he 
went  off  into  an  unmannerly  and  violent  attack  upon  the  Eng- 
lish universities.  All  the  world  knew,  he  declared,  that  they 
had  long  ceased  to  be  seats  of  learning.  He  could  not  deny 
that  they  turned  out  sportsmen  and  athletes : because,  only  a 
few  weeks  before,  he  had  read  in  a newspaper  how  a young 
English  nobleman  had  swum  the  Laacher  See.  i;j 

“It  is  wider  than  Leander’s  Hellespont  and  much  colder, 
said  the  Lovesick  Lion,  “and  there  was  no  beautiful  maiden  at 

the  window  to  encourage  him. 

‘ < That  may  be,  ” snapped  the  Crocodile.  ‘ ‘ But  we  German 
youths  use  our  strength  more  nobly.  With  the  oar  and l the 
crickey-batz  we  may  be  inferior : but  we  do  not,  like  the  Eng- 
lish, neglect  the  career  of  arms.  We  can  use  the  sword, 
have  read  that  the  duel  is  now  almost  unknown  m England. 
Truly,  I cannot  understand.  If  I should  insult  you,  worthy 
Herr  Englishman,  what  would  you  do?” 

“I  should  knock  you  down,”  answered  Coggin  simply. 

The  Worm  and  the  Lion  saved  the  Crocodile’s  honor  by 
laughing  boisterously;  and  then  a bilious-looking  student 
called  the  Yellow  Fox,  with  great  tact,  reminded  the^  Croco- 
dile that  they  had  been  discussing  the  academic  life.  Turning 
to  Coggin  he  explained  in  a reverential  tone  that  the  Crocodile 
was  writing  a thesis  to  be  called  “The  Influence  of  Onomato- 
poeia on  the  Development  of  Classical  Meters.”  Thus  encour- 
aged, the  Crocodile  plunged  noisily  into  a swamp  of  erudition, 
in  which  he  splashed  about  with  great  delight.  . Suddenly  he 
interrupted  himself  and  demanded  Coggin  s opinion. 


236 


THE  HARE 


“I  think, ” said  Coggin,  “that  we  should  be  sparing  in  our 
use  of  this  long  word.  You  have  described  many  passages  as 
onomatopoeic  where  I think  there  is  nothing  more  than  the 
verbal  propriety  which  we  expect  in  poetry.  Many  words,  in 
all  languages,  are  in  themselves  mimetic  or  descriptive  and  the 
poets  used  these  words  because  there  were  no  others.  As  for 
what  you  said  about  the  Eupolideus  Polyschematistus,  you 
will  not  deny  that  Eupolis  was  a sophisticated  comic  poet, 
And  will  you  excuse  my  saying  that  your  example  of  the 
Phalaecian  hendecasyllable  is  not  an  example  of  that  meter 
at  all?  The  dactyl  is  not  preceded  by  an  ithyphallicus.  ” 

Horror  struck  the  Worm,  the  Lion,  the  Fox,  and  the  other 
students  dumb.  By  a common  instinct  they  came  to  a halt 
in  the  midst  of  the  pine-wood.  The  Crocodile,  the  learned 
Crocodile  to  whom  they  owed  money  without  exception,  had 
been  flatly  contradicted  by  a healthy  young  English  barbarian, 
not  on  a point  of  horse-racing  or  fox-hunting  but  on  the 
Crocodile’s  very  own  subject,  on  the  matter  of  the  Crocodile’s 
very  own  thesis.  With  one  accord  they  turned  to  the  Croco- 
dile, dumbly  imploring  him  to  save  Germany’s  honor  as  well 
as  his  own. 

“I  am  glad  to  discover,”  said  the  exasperated  savant,  “that 
there  are,  after  all,  some  young  Englishmen  who  concern 
themselves  with  the  classics.  But  with  great  respect  I say  you 
are  wrong.  If  we  were  in  a town  instead  of  a pine-wood,  and 
if  these  tree-trunks  were  the  shelves  of  a library,  I would  at 
once  convince  you  of  your  mistake.” 

Coggin  shook  his  head  good-humoredly  but  confidently. 
“Let  us  talk  of  something  else,”  he  suggested.  “Or,  better 
still,  let  me  hear  another  of  your  songs.” 

They  were  singing  the  last  bars  of  a doleful  madrigal  about 
home-sickness,  when  the  path  curved  sharply  and  dipped 
steeply,  revealing  a large  plain  building  in  the  midst  of  newly- 


THE  WANDERER 


237 


made  gardens.  From  a laborer  standing  at  the  gate  the  Yel- 
low Fox  learned  that  this  was  a Jesuit  college,  recently  opened. 

1 6 There  will  be  a library  inside,  ' ’ said  Harry.  * 4 1 am  sure 
they  will  allow  us  to  consult  it.” 

“I  hate  the  Jesuits,”  retorted  the  Crocodile,  “and  I will  not 
be  under  an  obligation  to  them.” 

The  Worm,  with  unwormlike  spirit,  replied  that  they  must 
think  of  the  inmates  of  the  building  not  as  Jesuits  but  as 
scholars;  and  he  led  the  way  through  the  gate.  A fairly 
good  library  was  willingly  opened  and  Coggin  proved  that  the 
Crocodile  was  wrong. 

“We  all  make  slips  sometimes,”  he  said  generously. 

“You  may.  But  I don't,”  shouted  the  Crocodile,  in  a ter- 
rible rage.  And  to  Coggin’s  utter  stupefaction,  he  denied 
having  said  that  his  quotation  was  intended  as  an  example  of 
the  Phalaecian  hendecasyllable.  What  was  still  more  appal- 
ling, the  Yellow  Fox  and  two  of  his  toadies,  Schwarz  and  Beck- 
mann, instantly  and  loudly  agreed  that  the  Crocodile  had  made 
no  such  statement.  On  being  challenged  by  the  Fox,  with  a 
meaning  leer,  the  Love-sick  Lion  hummed  and  hawed  and  at 
last  affirmed  that  he  could  not  clearly  remember.  Only  the 
Worm  dared  to  take  the  Englishman's  side. 

Before  departing  in  disgust,  Coggin  politely  thanked  the 
Jesuit  who  had  opened  the  library : whereupon  the  good  Father 
said: 

“Pardon  me.  We  meet  so  few  Englishmen  who  speak  good 
German  that  I must  ask  you  a question.  Is  it  possible  that 
you  are  the  young  gentleman  who  stayed  three  weeks  in  our 
new  school  at  Maria-Laach?  One  of  our  Fathers  received  a 
letter  about  it.  Perhaps  you  are  the  Englishman  who  swam 
the  Laacher  See.  If  so,  you  are  indeed  doubly  welcome  here. ' ’ 

“It  was  I who  stayed  at  Maria-Laach,”  Harry  confessed 
modestly.  “And  I shall  never  forget  the  kindness  of  the 


238 


THE  HARE 


Fathers  there.  Allow  me  to  accompany  these  ...  to  go  with 
my  traveling  companions  a little  way  further:  then  I will 
return  and  pay  my  great  respects.” 

He  had  begun  to  say  “these  gentlemen”;  but  the  word 
stuck  in  his  throat.  And  when  they  were  all  seven  out  again 
on  the  road  he  drew  back  from  the  others,  attaching  himself 
to  the  Worm  alone.  In  the  village,  less  than  a mile  off,  he 
led  the  party  to  the  best  inn  and  ordered  a four-bottle  “bowl.” 
Two  hours  before,  the  Crocodile  had  given  everybody  a draught 
of  wine  and  Harry  was  not  willing  to  remain  in  his  debt. 

When  the  bowl  had  been  emptied,  mainly  by  the  prowess  of 
Beckmann  and  Schwarz,  Harry,  ignoring  a dozen  eager  ques- 
tions about  the  Laacher  See,  rose  and  said : 

“In  my  country  we  often  use  the  expression  ‘a  scholar  and 
a gentleman.’  I perceive  that,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Worm,  whose  hand  I shall  be  proud  to  shake,  you  students 
are  neither.  If  anybody  considers  himself  insulted,  let  him 
challenge  me  now.  The  choice  of  weapons  will  be  mine,  and 
I shall  choose  the  only  weapons  I carry  with  me — my  two 
fists.  But  let  me  warn  you  that  I have  used  them  before 
and  that  I was  not  the  vanquished.  Herr  Worm,  I admire 
you : not  for  taking  my  part,  but  for  speaking  the  truth  with- 
out flattery  and  without  fear.  ’ ’ 

He  went  out  slowly  and  loitered  in  the  road.  Through  the 
open  window  he  saw  the  Crocodile  making  a big  pretense  of 
struggling  away  from  the  restraining  grasp  of  his  parasites 
and  he  heard  angry  exclamations.  But  the  Crocodile  failed 
to  follow  him : and  even  the  Worm  did  not  turn. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


FLAW  in  a letter  of  credit  cut  short  Harry  Coggin’s 


wanderings  in  the  Black  Forest  and  compelled  his 


1 \ return  to  Cologne  without  even  a glance  at  Freiburg. 

The  weather  too  was  breaking  and  a visit  to  an  English  tailor 
had  become  imperative. 

Fogs  delayed  the  steamboat  and  it  was  very  late  when 
Harry  stepped  ashore  at  Cologne.  He  could  not  see  the  towers 
and  spires : but  he  knew  that  they  were  all  around  him,  climb- 
ing here  and  there  into  the  dark,  because  the  chilly  night  was 
a-hum  and  a-throb  with  the  mutterings  of  a hundred  muffled 
bells.  The  grandeur  of  these  solemn  peals  and  the  hush  of  the 
narrow  streets  impressed  Harry  deeply.  He  thought  at  first 
that  the  King  of  Prussia  must  be  dead : but  a friendly  citizen 
told  him  the  truth.  Cardinal  von  Geissel,  Archbishop  of 
Cologne,  had  just  breathed  his  last.  The  shops  were  shuttered, 
the  cafes  and  theaters  closed.  Cologne  seemed  a city  of  the 
dead ; and  when  the  tired  traveler  blew  out  his  bedside  candle 
the  muffled  bells  were  still  crooning  in  he  autumn  gloom. 

Very  early  next  morning  Harry  made  his  way  to  the  Cathe- 
dral. Pie  drew  near  with  a faster-beating  heart.  Excepting 
the  huge  whitewashed  barns  of  Holland,  he  had  never  in  his 
life  beheld  a church  on  the  grand  scale.  Nevertheless,  as  he 
mounted  the  steps,  he  sturdily  reminded  himself  of  what  Ed,- 
ward  Redding  had  said  and  he  prepared  himself  for  a great 
disappointment.  In  at  least  half  a dozen  books  of  travel  he 
had  read  the  same  jokes  about  eau  de  Cologne  and  about  the 
city’s  forty  distinct  smells,  together  with  the  same  protesta- 
tions of  disillusionment  at  the  interior  of  the  cathedral. 


239 


THE  HARE 


240 

He  entered  the  church  when  the  sunshine,  paled  by  ghostly 
vapors  from  the  Rhine,  was  pouring  an  unearthly  light  through 
the  eastern  windows.  Harry  could  have  cried  out  in  fear  and 
amazement.  He  was  standing  in  a temple  so  vast  that  it 
seemed  more  like  a wonder  of  nature  than  a work  of  art.  So 
large  a part  of  the  earth  was  here  enclosed  that  shadows  hid 
the  roof  a hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  Harry’s  head  while 
light  veils  of  mist  blurred  the  High  Altar,  more  than  half  a 
furlong  away.  The  pile  was  as  solid  and  solemn  as  a lime- 
stone cavern,  yet  as  lissom  and  airy  as  a larch-wood  in  spring. 

Harry  perceived  what  had  happened.  Since  Edward  Red- 
ding’s visit,  since  the  printing  of  even  the  latest  guide-books 
to  Cologne,  the  authorities  had  pulled  down  the  partition  wall 
which  for  five  hundred  years  had  divided  the  choir  from  the 
nave.  He,  Harry  Coggin,  was  beholding  what  Edward  Red- 
ding had  never  beheld  and  what  the  grumblers  who  wrote 
the  travel-books  had  not  been  able  to  imagine.  He  was  gazing 
down  the  whole  length  of  a Dom  which  had  been  six  centuries 
a-bnilding. 

As  the  light  grew,  the  vast  house  came  to  life.  Bells  began 
tolling,  out  of  sight.  Every  five  minutes  or  so  a priest,  vested 
for  Mass,  would  pick  his  way  through  the  forest  of  columns, 
attended  by  a surpliced  boy,  and  take  possession  of  one  of  the 
countless  altars.  Hundreds  of  the  townfolks  came  dribbling 
in,  some  in  punctilious  black,  some  in  smocks  or  aprons  with 
market  baskets  or  the  tools  of  their  trade.  Some  remained  for 
half  an  hour,  hearing  Mass : some  knelt  low  and  prayed  before 
a great  Crucifix  or  before  the  image  of  a saint;  and  some, 
after  bowing  down  and  crossing  themselves,  hurried  back  to 
their  toil  and  their  worries. 

As  Harry,  with  lingering  steps,  quitted  the  cathedral  he 
noticed  a burly  cleric  instructing  a band  of  carpenters  and  he 
guessed  that  arrangements  were  already  being  made  for  the 
lying-in-state  of  the  dead  Cardinal.  Passing  out  into  the 


THE  WANDERER 


241 


streets  he  found  them  more  animated  than  the  night  before : 
yet  half-masted  flags,  black  shutters  and  scarves  of  crape  were 
everywhere.  He  walked  rapidly  westward,  intending  to  visit 
the  tomb  of  Duns  Scotus  in  the  church  of  the  Minorites  before 
breakfast;  but  in  this  church  also  black- vested  priests  were 
already  saying  Masses  for  the  repose  of  the  Archbishop ’s  poor 
soul : The  same  dread  business  was  toward  in  the  astounding 
church  of  St.  Gereon,  with  the  sarcophagi  and  the  skulls  of  the 
three  hundred  and  eighteen  martyrs  of  the  Theban  legion ; in 
the  old  Irish  church  of  St.  Martin : in  the  cruciform  shrine  of 
St.  Maria  in  Capitol;  in  St.  George’s  and  in  St.  Peter’s,  in  St. 
Severin’s  and  in  St.  Cecilia’s,  in  St.  Cunibert’s  and  in  St. 
Pantaleon’s;  in  the  domed  basilica  of  the  Apostles;  and  also 
in  the  church  of  the  sainted  English  princess  Ursula,  so  that 
Coggin  could  not  decently  linger  over  the  bones  of  the  eleven 
thousand  virgins. 

Throughout  that  soft  September  day,  Harry  almost  lived  in 
churches.  In  the  cathedral  alone  he  spent  two  or  three  hours, 
watching  the  erection  of  the  catafalque,  marveling  at  the  tall 
yellow  candles  and  drinking  in  the  poignant,  ancient  chants 
and  the  resounding  Latin.  And  even  when  he  was  in  the 
street  he  could  not  feel  that  he  was  quite  out  of  church:  be- 
cause, all  the  time,  half-hushed  peals  of  near  bells  seemed  to 
shelter  him  from  common  sights  and  sounds  with  a moving 
canopy  of  sable  velvet  borne  on  poles  of  massy  bronze. 

By  every  train  and  steamboat,  ecclesiastical  personages  were 
arriving  in  Cologne.  Dignitaries  drove  hither  and  thither  in 
chariots.  Praying  nuns  abounded  in  the  churches.  Repre- 
sentatives of  religious  orders,  in  their  picturesque  and 
varied  habits,  were  always  passing  in  and  out  of  the  Dom. 
Nor  was  military  pomp  to  seek.  Brass-bound  generals  and 
other  high  officers  in  resplendent  uniforms  rode  noisily  along 
the  cobbled  streets.  At  Harry’s  inn  the  landlord  asked  him 
to  mount  two  floors  higher,  to  make  room  for  some  enormous, 


242 


THE  HARE 


sliort-necked,  loud-speaking  civilians  who  had  come  from  Ber- 
lin. It  began  to  be  evident  that  an  outsider  and  an  English- 
man, like  Henry  Goggin,  stood  a poor  chance  of  gaining  admit- 
tance to  the  supreme  ceremonies. 

Among  the  letters  of  introduction  in  his  pocket-book,  Harry 
knew  that  there  was  one  addressed  to  a Prior  in  this  very  city 
of  Cologne,  but  bashfulness  held  him  back  from  using  it.  It 
fell  out,  however,  that  his  good  friend,  the  Superior  at  St. 
Maria-Laach,  accompanied  by  the  big  English  Benedictine 
monk,  had  just  come  downstream  from  Andernach  to  assist  at 
the  funeral.  Harry  was  in  the  south  transept  of  the  cathedral, 
gazing  at  the  colossal  statue  of  St.  Christopher,  when  their 
two  hearty  voices  hailed  him. 

Business  soon  hurried  the  Jesuit  away  but  the  Benedictine 
was  free.  He  had  taken  a strong  fancy  to  Harry,  and  he  ap- 
peared to  be  more  conscious  of  their  common  nationality  than 
of  their  difference  in  religion.  During  the  hours  which  fol- 
lowed, his  influence  unlocked  two  libraries  of  rare  books  and 
MSS.  and  four  church-treasuries  of  vestments  and  reliquaries. 
He  pointed  out  a hundred  things  not  mentioned  in  the  guide- 
books, and  rapidly  narrated  the  legends  of  saints  as  set  forth 
in  the  carvings  and  paintings  and  windows  of  the  churches. 
He  showed — though  Harry  knew  some  of  these  things  already 
— how  one  could  distinguish  by  their  dress  a Franciscan  from 
a Dominican,  a Benedictine  from  a Carmelite,  and  he  briefly 
explained  not  only  the  origin  but  the  practical  condition  of 
these  great  orders.  He  stepped  into  a shop  and  bought  for 
his  friend  a prayer-book  in  Latin  and  German ; and  when  the 
old  shop-woman  insisted  on  selling  Harry  a rosary  this  good- 
natured  monk  took  him  into  a quiet  little  church  and  taught 
him  how  to  number  the  beads,  how  to  say  “Ave,  Maria,”  and 
how  to  meditate  on  the  Mysteries  of  Redemption. 

They  ate  their  midday  meal  at  the  hospitable  table  of  the 
Jesuit  Fathers,  where  grief  for  the  dead  Archbishop  was  al- 


THE  WANDERER 


243 


ready  beginning  to  be  lightened  by  speculations  as  to  his 
successor.  After  dinner,  the  Benedictine  led  Harry  into  the 
Jesuits'  church  and,  standing  before  the  over-decorated  pul- 
pit, exclaimed: 

“I  detest  Jesuit  architecture,  Jesuit  decoration.  The 
Jesuits  have  aimed  at  grandeur  and  have  achieved  only 
grandiosity.  Yet  their  intention  was  sincere  as  well  as  gran- 
diose. Remember  that  when  this  church  was  built,  in  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  the  kings  and  nobles  of  Christendom  were 
busy  piling  up  vast  and  ornate  palaces,  often  to  the  neglect  of 
churches.  Think  how  mean  is  the  cathedral  at  Versailles  in 
comparison  with  the  Grand  Monarch's  over-grown  house,  half 
a mile  away.  The  Jesuits  were  determined  that  Almighty  God 
should  have  His  due : that  He  too  should  have  new  enormous 
halls  rich  with  gold  and  marble.  But  give  me  instead  the 
solemn  interiors  of  the  Romanesque,  the  yearning  arches  of 
the  Gothic.  You  have  seen  St.  Gereon's?" 

“Yes.  I have  seen  nearly  twenty  churches  here,"  replied 
Coggin. 

“Then  try  to  imagine  what  Cologne  was,  until  about  sixty 
years  ago.  There  are  old  men  in  this  town  who  remember  the 
day  when  Cologne  boasted  more  than  a hundred  churches. 
Think  wThat  an  Archbishop ’s  funeral  must  have  been  in  those 
days.  The  cannon.  The  muffled  peals  from  fifty  belfries. 
No  gas  lamps ; all  candles.  No  steamboats,  no  railways.  The 
river  alive  with  row-boats,  with  sailing-craft;  the  streets 
blocked  with  coaches,  with  travelers  on  horse-back.  Still,  the 
sights  we  are  seeing  to-day  are  imposing  enough.  But  listen. 
Those  bells,  just  beginning  overhead,  were  cast  with  metal  of 
captured  cannon." 

Out  in  the  street,  Harry  returned  to  the  question  of  the 
hundred  churches  and  observed:  “I  suppose  the  people  of 
Cologne  don't  want  a lot  of  little  churches  now  that  their  im- 
mense cathedral  is  nearly  finished." 


244 


THE  HARE 


They  were  passing  through  a public  garden.  The  Benedic- 
tine stopped  dead,  as  if  dumb  struck.  Then  his  tongue  was 
loosened  and  he  poured  out  a stream  of  simple  eloquence  which 
swept  away  Harry ’s  preconceptions  and  overwhelmed  him  with 
new  ideas. 

A cathedral,  the  monk  declared,  was  not  a magnified  parish 
church.  It  was  an  august  shelter  for  the  seat  of  the  Bishop, 
the  successor  of  the  Apostles,  where  he  sat  throned  in  the 
midst  of  his  Chapter,  teaching  and  ruling  the  faithful.  It 
was  a stately  palace  of  the  Incarnate  Redeemer,  truly  present 
on  the  Altar.  It  was  a temple  where  Almighty  God  was 
praised  with  lofty  praises  seven  times  a day.  Whether  ten 
thousand  people  crowded  in,  or  whether  the  vast  nave  was 
empty,  made  no  difference  to  this  high  work  of  praising  God 
— a work  as  needful  to  be  done  as  the  work  of  baking  bread, 
the  work  of  carrying  water,  the  works  of  spinning,  of  weav- 
ing, of  tanning,  of  fishing,  of  plowing,  of  sowing,  of  reaping. 

They  resumed  their  walk  until  the  Dom  came  in  sight. 
“Look!”  cried  the  monk.  “Here  in  stone  and  in  wood  and 
in  glass  is  your  whole  Bible,  from  Genesis  to  Revelation. 
Carved  or  painted,  inside  or  outside,  you  find  Paradise;  the 
Deluge ; Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob ; the  patriarchs,  the  judges, 
the  prophets,  the  kings,  the  apostles,  the  martyrs.  And  here 
is  the  future  as  well  as  the  past.  Here  are  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment, Heaven,  Purgatory,  Hell.  Here  are  the  gracious  mira- 
cles of  beloved  saints,  so  plain  that  an  unlettered  child  can 
read  them.” 

He  set  forth  the  other  uses  and  meanings  of  a cathedral, 
and  then  added  abruptly : ‘ ‘ But  surely,  even  in  your  Church 
of  England,  the  cathedrals,  our  old  cathedrals,  have  taught 
you  nearly  all  that  I have  just  tried  to  say.” 

Coggin  hesitated.  On  the  one  hand  he  hated  to  speak  about 
himself:  and,  on  the  other,  he  hated  still  more  to  remain  in 
a false  position.  At  length  he  said: 


THE  WANDERER 


245 


“I  never  saw  a cathedral  in  England.  I lived  in  the  same 
little  town  all  my  life  until  three  months  ago  and  I had  to 
work  very  hard.  As  for  my  being  a member  of  the  Church 
of  England  . . . well,  I suppose  I am.  I was  brought  up  a 
Baptist.  When  I was  twelve  years  old,  I was  baptized  by  a 
Church  of  England  clergyman ; but  he  became  a Roman  Cath- 
olic a few  weeks  later.  I have  never  been  confirmed  and  I 
have  never  been  to  Holy  Communion.’ ’ 

The  astounding  monk  relieved  himself  by  a long  low  whistle. 
He  gazed  at  the  half -made  Anglican  so  fixedly  that  Coggin  be- 
come alarmed  and  began  to  feel  sure  that  a stern  reproach, 
full  of  odium  theologicum,  was  preparing  behind  that  knitted 
brow.  But  when  the  Benedictine  spoke  it  was  not  in  ful- 
minant Latin  or  even  in  academic  English.  He  said : 

4 ‘Here  ’s  a rummy  go.  Never  heard  anything  like  it  in 
my  life.  Now  look  here,  my  young  friend,  I’m  going  to  talk 
to  you  like  a Dutch  uncle.  At  Laach  I swam  out  to  save 
you  from  the  water.  This  afternoon  I shall  speak  out  to  save 
you  from  the  fire — from  hell-fire.  Do  you  understand?” 

“Yes,”  retorted  Harry,  stung  by  the  words.  “You  mean 
that  only  Catholics  can  go  to  Heaven.  You  mean  that  all  those 
who  are  not  Catholics  must  go  to  hell.” 

“I  mean  no  such  rubbish,  no  such  heresy,  no  such  blas- 
phemy,” said  the  monk  warmly.  “I  wish  I could  feel  as 
sure  of  getting  to  heaven  as  I ’m  sure  that  my  old  aunt 
Charlotte  will  go  there.  She  hates  the  very  name  of  the 
Pope  and  she  gives  half  her  income  to  the  Irish  Protestant 
missions : yet  in  her  own  way  she  is  a saint.  She  is  not  against 
the  Church  but  only  against  a silly  and  wicked  travesty  of  it 
which  bigots  have  steadily  held  before  her  eyes.  She  does  not 
deny  the  Catholic  faith,  but  only  a vile  perversion  of  it  which 
she  does  right  to  abhor.  No,  no.  I fear  some  Catholics  will 
go  to  hell  and  I believe  many  Protestants  will  go  to  heaven. ’ 7 

“You  mean,  perhaps,”  suggested  Harry,  when  the  monk’s 


246 


THE  HARE 


pause  had  lasted  some  time,  “that  in  my  case  I can't  plead 
ignorance;  that  if  I don't  turn  Catholic  I shall  be  wilfully 
shutting  my  eyes." 

“Not  exactly,"  said  the  other.  “What  you  have  just  said 
is  obvious.  My  thoughts  are  traveling  quicker  and  further 
than  that.  I 'm  pretty  sure  you  'll  become  a Catholic  sooner 
or  later.  What  troubles  me  is  that  you  may  come  into  the 
Church  for  the  loaves  and  fishes.  No,  no,  don't  jump,  don't 
get  angry.  Let 's  go  into  the  cathedral  and  I 'll  explain." 

Within  the  holy  place  the  monk  said:  “There  are  many 
kinds  of  loaves,  many  kinds  of  fishes : loaves  that  never  came 
out  of  an  oven,  fishes  that  never  swam  in  the  sea.  We  despise 
those  who  hang  round  the  Church  simply  for  what  they  can 
get.  But  think.  You  have  money.  If  you  hadn’t,  you 
could  n 't  spend  all  these  months  gadding  about  Germany.  So 
a loaf  of  baker's  bread  wouldn't  tempt  you  to  profess  piety, 
as  it  tempts  a poor  hungry  widow.  Yet  . . . yet  I am  afraid 
that  some  day  you  may  turn  Catholic  for  your  particular  loaf, 
for  your  particular  fish.  Music,  Architecture,  Vestments, 
Images,  Ceremonies,  Latin.  To  you  are  not  these  things  crisp, 
crusty,  golden  rolls,  are  n't  they  tasty  little  silver  fishes? 

“My  dear  friend,  mark  me  well.  The  Church  is  a city  set 
on  a hill,  a city  fair  to  behold.  Her  gates,  her  walls,  her 
towers,  her  gardens,  her  palaces,  her  banners  make  a brave 
show.  Music  murmurs  and  resounds  in  her  streets  like  rush- 
ing water-brooks.  Her  fountains  run  wine.  But  while  you 
are  thankful  for  these  delights,  while  they  refresh  you  and 
strengthen  you,  it  is  not  for  these  pleasures  that  you  must 
climb  the  path  to  her  gateway.  You  must  knock  humbly  at 
her  portals  simply  because  Almighty  God  has  appointed  this 
City  for  your  soul's  habitation.  Even  if  her  many  mansions 
were  mud-hovels,  if  her  streets  were  choked  with  nettles  and 
thorns,  if  her  fountains  poured  forth  bitter  waters,  if  her 


THE  WANDERER  247 

fig-trees  bristled  with  thistles,  her  true  citizens  would  abide 
just  as  trustfully,  just  as  thankfully  within  her  walls. 

“Look  up.  Look  round.  How  glorious  are  these  roofs, 
these  columns,  these  marbles,  these  windows,  these  rolling 
chants.  Yet  they  are  man’s  work,  fated  to  decay.  If  a 
hundred  immensely  wealthy  rascals  pooled  a hundred  ill- 
gotten  fortunes  together  they  could  build  a copy  of  this  cathe- 
dral, just  as  vast,  just  as  solid ; they  could  put  into  it  a grander 
organ,  they  could  hire  sweeter  choristers,  more  sonorous  can- 
tors. But  they  could  n’t  buy  the  Presence  of  God.  And  if,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  Catholics  of  Cologne  were  driven  out  of 
this  cathedral,  driven  out  of  St.  Gereon’s  and  all  the  other 
churches,  driven  into  dank  caves  or  crazy  barns,  with  not  one 
chasuble,  with  no  chalice  save  an  earthenware  cup,  without 
bell  or  candle,  without  one  statue  of  a saint,  without  one  paint- 
ing, without  one  relic,  without  even  a crucifix,  they  would  still 
be  Catholics.  Their  priests  in  everyday  clothes  would  still 
be  priests,  their  caverns  and  sheds  would  be  Catholic  churches, 
their  Mass,  with  a boulder  for  an  altar,  would  be  as  truly  the 
Holy  Sacrifice  as  the  High  Mass  sung  by  the  Pope  himself  in 
St.  Peter’s  on  Easter  Day. 

“I  entreat  you,  when  the  moment  comes  for  your  choice,  to 
ask  yourself  searchingly  whether  it  is  the  Master  Himself  you 
are  choosing  or  merely  the  Master’s  golden  loaves,  the  Master’s 
silver  fishes. 

‘ 4 Glance  at  that  lady  standing  under  the  statue  of  St.  Apol- 
linaris.  Look  at  the  cross  hanging  round  her  neck.  It 
sparkles  with  gems.  Christ ’s  cross,  with  the  passing  of  eigh- 
teen hundred  years,  has  become  encrusted  all  over  with  jewels 
— the  spoils  of  His  conquests  in  the  fields  of  art  and  poesy  and 
music.  But  I repeat,  when  the  hour  of  choice  comes,  de- 
mand of  yourself  whether  you  are  desiring  the  diamonds  or 
rubies  rather  than  the  little  hard  cross  underneath,  the  cross 


248 


THE  HARE 


which  was  once  a symbol  of  utmost  shame  and  must  always  be  a 
symbol  of  self-renunciation,  of  griefs,  or  sorrows.  Do  you  un- 
derstand me?,> 

"Yes,”  said  Harry,  rather  feebly.  “I  have  always  heard 
that  one  of  the  great  mistakes  of  the  Catholic  Church  is  to 
intoxicate  the  senses  by  mysterious  architecture  and  wonderful 
music,  so  that  the  soul  does  not  worship  God  in  spirit  and  in 
truth.” 

“ There  are  no  such  things  as  mistakes  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  my  friend,”  retorted  the  monk,  smiling,  “but  I know 
what  you  mean.  That  Puritan  heresy  is  not  new  to  me,  be- 
cause I was  bred  and  bom  in  it  myself.  It  hates  the  breaking 
of  the  alabaster  box  of  precious  ointment  over  the  head  of 
Our  Lord.  Church  windows  must  be  of  leaden  gray;  harsh 
voices,  with  no  organs  to  mollify  them,  must  lead  the  divine 
praises:  the  sacred  ministers  must  go  about  their  high  busi- 
ness in  the  coats  and  trousers  of  the  counting-room;  lest 
thoughts  should  wander  away  from  the  Puritan’s  unsmiling, 
unhomely  far-off  God. 

“I  grant  that  there  may  be  dangers  to  some  souls  in  a 
stately  ritual.  Some  people  might  argue  that  these  obsequies 
of  Cologne’s  dead  Archbishop  are  so  interesting  that  they 
blunt  the  sharp  sense  of  death  and  that  therefore  the  remains 
of  Cardinal  von  Geissel  should  be  thrown  into  the  ground  like 
a dog’s.  We  do  not  rob  the  dead  of  seemly  rites  because  some 
musical  mourner  may  speculate  as  to  the  pitch  of  the  passing- 
bell  instead  of  preparing  for  his  own  last  hour.  And  we  must 
not  rob  God  of  the  honors  which  are  His  due,  merely  to  pam- 
per a few  spiritual  muffs  by  removing  danger  from  their  path 
instead  of  teaching  them  how  to  overcome  it.  Believe  me.  If 
there  are  indeed  men  and  women  who  are  made  to  forget  God 
by  the  majesty  of  a Te  Deum  sung  in  a cathedral,  those  men 
and  women  would  never  have  been  led  to  find  Him  by  a Tate- 
and-Brady  metrical  psalm  bawled  in  a conventicle  like  a barn. 


THE  WANDERER 


249 


No,  no.  Let  us  rejoice  that  the  King  of  Kings  has  noble  pal- 
aces, that  He  is  acclaimed  in  them  with  brave  fanfares.  All  I 
pray  is  that  the  King  Himself  may  be  your  soul’s  desire. 
There  are  too  many  converts  nowadays  who  approach  the 
Church  with  a condescending  air,  graciously  signifying  their 
approval  of  her  art,  her  music,  her  philosophy.  They  give  up 
nothing.  They  merely  pluck  for  themselves  the  roses  of  re- 
ligion, with  gloves  on  their  white  hands  against  the  thorns. 
Be  on  your  guard  against  this  subtle  hedonism.  Do  not  pat- 
ronize the  church.  Enter  her  courts  humbly,  thankfully, 
obediently,  generously,  more  anxious  to  serve  and  to  suffer 
than  to  attain  complacency  and  to  increase  your  sum  of  fine 
pleasures.’ ’ 

A Domschweizer  or  verger  approached  to  say  that  work- 
men required  possession  of  the  spot  whereon  the  two  were 
standing.  As  they  moved  off,  an  old  priest  claimed  the  Bene- 
dictine and  bore  him  away. 

Harry  went  down  to  the  bank  of  the  Rhine  and  crossed  by 
the  bridge-of-boats  to  Deutz,  whence  he  could  gaze  on  the 
towers  and  the  peaked  roofs  of  Cologne.  The  monk’s  earnest 
harangue  had  been  based  on  a complete  misunderstanding  of 
his  auditor’s  character  and  history:  yet  it  made  Harry  think. 

“Do  not  patronize  the  Catholic  Church  ...  do  not  come 
to  her  with  a condescending  air.”  As  he  leaned  against  the 
wall  of  the  little  harbor  and  watched  the  bridge-of-boats  open- 
ing for  the  passage  of  a great  raft,  Harry  could  not  hold  back 
a joyless  laugh. 

He  recalled  the  very  few  landmarks  in  his  short  and  limp- 
ing religious  progress.  Even  Pastor  Clupp ’s  tiny  chapel  and 
bleak  services  had  commanded  the  boy’s  humble  reverence. 
As  for  the  Church  of  England,  it  had  been  only  by  a tre- 
mendous effort  that  he  had  screwed  up  courage,  twelve  years 
before,  to  beg  of  the  Reverend  Oswald  Redding  the  supreme 


250 


THE  HARE 


privilege  of  baptism  in  the  cool  waters  of  the  hurrying  Skil- 
bourne.  Until  the  death  of  his  father,  he  had  continued  to 
sit  under  the  sermons  of  Pastor  Clupp  except  on  days  when 
his  relations  with  Mr.  Daplyn,  the  organist  of  St.  Michael's, 
enabled  him  to  worship  at  the  parish  church.  But,  as  Mr. 
Redding's  successor  knew  nothing  of  the  lad’s  baptism  and 
was  determined  in  any  event  to  give  him  a wide  berth,  no- 
body mentioned  Confirmation : apd  Harry  did  not  presume  to 
approach  the  holy  table.  In  the  eyes  of  Bulford's  church- 
people,  young  Coggin  was  simply  a chapel-going  boy  whose 
itch  for  organ-playing  did  not  entitle  them  to  interfere  with 
his  paternal  religion. 

While  he  was  shrinking  thus  timidly  from  claiming  his 
privileges  in  the  Established  Church,  it  would  have  required 
a miracle  to  make  Harry  dream  of  ever  entering  the  Church 
of  Rome.  That  Mr.  Redding,  his  hero  and  his  ideal,  had  be- 
come a Catholic  made  no  difference.  Although  the  boy  oc- 
casionally perused  a theological  book  in  the  course  of  his 
omnivorous  reading,  he  had  no  strong  theological  bent,  and 
his  ecclesiastical  knowledge  was  neither  systematic  nor  up-to- 
date.  When  he  thought  of  Mr.  Redding's  Catholicism  he 
never  identified  it  with  the  faith  and  practice  of  the  shabby 
and  gloomy  little  Catholic  chapel  where  Bulford's  poor  and 
often  tipsy  Irish  knelt  in  unpicturesque  rags  before  a tawdry 
altar.  And  even  if  he  had  realized  that  the  Bulford  Catholics 
were  in  full  communion  with  Mr.  Redding's  magnificent  Catho- 
lics in  Rome  and  Vienna,  in  Paris  and  Rheims  and  Lyons  and 
Chartres,  in  Toledo  and  Seville  and  Burgos  and  Braga,  Harry 
Coggin  would  not  have  presumed  to  foist  himself  upon  Mr. 
Redding's  co-religionists.  He  would  as  soon  have  presumed 
to  begin  ordering  his  clothes  from  Mr.  Redding's  tailor. 

The  Rhine  glared  so  hotly  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  that 
Harry  turned  into  a garden-cafe  and  ordered  a glass  of  Rhine- 
wine  in  selterswasser.  Over  this  thin  and  copious  draught  he 


THE  WANDERER 


251 


reviewed  his  Benedictine  friend’s  exhortation  once  more. 
Pushing  aside  the  inapplicable  warning  against  condescension, 
he  faced  the  monk’s  prophecy,  “you  ’ll  be  a Catholic  some 
day.” 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  Harry  that  for  exactly  three  months 
he  had  heard  ^Mass  every  morning.  This  habit  had  formed 
itself  without  any  deliberate  intention.  He  had  simply  got 
into  a way  of  hearing  Mass,  because  the  churches  were  always 
certain  to  be  open  in  the  early  hours  and  because  the  old 
interiors  always  looked  their  best  with  candles  burning  on  the 
altars,  with  vester  priests  celebrating  the  Holy  Mysteries  and 
with  devotees  kneeling  here  and  there.  Beginning,  however, 
merely  as  an  inquisitive  tourist,  Harry  had  gradually  come 
to  make  this  daily  Mass-hearing  a religious  exercise.  Morn- 
ing by  morning,  he  had  filled  the  quiet  half-hour  with  his  own 
simple  prayers  and  meditations,  without  once  asking  himself 
whither  it  all  might  lead. 

Sipping  his  Rhine-wine,  Coggin  faced  this  new  problem. 
Was  he  doing  right?  At  Cologne  and  at  Baden-Baden  he 
had  been  within  reach  of  Church  of  England  services.  Surely 
it  was  wrong  for  him,  a Protestant,  to  attend  no  religious 
worship  save  the  Romish  Mass  ? And  yet,  when  he  tried  to  re- 
solve that  he  would  change  his  ways,  a damp  fell  upon  his 
soul  and  there,  in  the  afternoon  heat,  he  nearly  shivered. 
No.  This  habit  must  stand.  He  could  not  give  up  hearing 
Mass.  All  the  same,  his  native  honesty  cried  aloud  within 
him,  demanding  that  he  should  make  up  his  mind,  one  way 
or  another. 

To  Harry  Coggin  the  choice  between  Protestantism  and 
Catholicism  presented  itself  with  a strange  simplicity.  He 
had  heard  many  sermons  at  St.  Michael’s  on  the  errors  of 
the  Church  of  Rome,  but  they  had  not  greatly  impressed  him : 
because,  in  his  earlier  worshiping  at  the  Baptist  Chapel  he 
had  listened  to  equally  solemn  warnings  against  the  errors  of 


252 


THE  HARE 


the  Church  of  England.  Dogma  and  theological  strife  did 
not  appeal  to  him : but  he  knew  enough  of  such  matters  to  en- 
able him,  as  he  sat  gazing  across  the  Rhine  at  the  apse  of  the 
Cathedral,  to  catechize  himself  concerning  Popish  doctrine. 
Transubstantiation,  Purgatory,  the  Apostolical  Succession,  the 
Immaculate  Conception — although  these  articles  of  Romanist 
faith  bristled  with  prickly  polemics  he  knew  that  he  could 
not  confidently  deny  one  of  them.  More.  While  he  could  not 
say  boldly  that  he  believed  these  dogmas,  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  harder  still  to  disbelieve  them,  and  hardest  of  all  to  believe 
their  contradictories. 

In  the  near  past,  one  Papistical  claim  and  one  only  had 
pained  and  repelled  him — the  claim  that  there  was  no  salva- 
tion outside  the  Church’s  pale.  This  he  had  interpreted  al- 
most in  its  literal  sense;  and  if  the  Benedictine  had  not,  in 
homely  fashion,  brushed  the  misunderstanding  away,  it  would 
have  sufficed  to  keep  Harry  Coggin  from  giving  a moment’s 
practical  attention  to  the  summons  of  the  Catholic  Church. 
Unweakening  loyalty  to  his  mother  would  have  made  him  scorn 
the  thought  of  deserting  her.  How  could  he,  on  the  Day 
of  Judgment,  have  borne  to  turn  his  head  from  the  steeps  of 
light  and  to  look  down  upon  hell-bound  goats  with  his  own 
mother  pushed  onward  and  downward  by  the  dark  and  un- 
savory herd,  merely  because  of  her  unwitting  heresy  and 
inherited  schism? 

The  solemn  day  came.  From  a privileged  seat  in  the 
crowded  Dom,  Harry  Coggin  beheld  the  throng  of  cardinals, 
bishops,  mitered  abbots,  monks,  friars,  nuns,  princes,  warriors, 
burgesses.  He  heard  the  stupendous  hymn  “Dies  irae,”  he 
bowed  with  the  kneeling  thousands  at  the  Elevation  of  the 
Host,  he  followed  word  by  word  the  startling  Latin  of  the 
Offertorium  and  of  the  five  Absolutions,  he  watched  the 
sprinkling  and  censing  of  the  bier.  The  mere  ceremony  out- 


I 


THE  WANDERER 


253 

ran  his  expectations : but  the  ritual,  the  music,  the  vestments, 
the  Latin,  did  not  awe  him  so  deeply  as  the  Church’s  mien 
towards  Death.  In  black  raiment  she  sorrowed  over  mortality, 
over  mutability:  but  there  was  no  morbidness  in  her  mourn- 
ing. Her  sable  velvets  heightened  the  brightness  of  Hope’s 
silver  star.  To  her  children,  sad-eyed  Death  was  not  a horror 
but  God’s  pitiful  and  holy  messenger. 

What  impressed  Harry  most  was  the  calm  faith  of  these 
Papists  in  the  life  everlasting  and  in  the  power  of  the  living 
to  help  the  dead.  They  could  not  lift  the  veil  and  accom- 
pany their  friend  and  pastor  into  the  strange  realms  beyond : 
but  they  could  win  for  him  supernal  reinforcements  to  follow 
him  through  the  ebon  gate  and  to  fight  victoriously  with  him 
in  the  mysterious  battle.  They  could  pray  the  Father  that 
He  would  send  twelve  legions  of  angels  to  be  His  servant’s 
bodyguard  against  the  Accuser  and  his  demons. 

When  the  clergy  gathered  round  the  catafalque  and  the 
choir  sang  Libera  me , Domine,  de  morte  aeterna , in  die  ilia 
tremenda:  “Deliver  me  Lord  from  endless  death  in  that 
tremendous  day,  ’ ’ Coggin  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  began 
to  pray  for  his  own  dead — for  his  father,  for  his  mother,  for 
George  Placker’s  boys.  But  when  all  was  over  and  the  muffled 
drums  of  the  military  bands  rolled  out  the  first  bars  of  a 
funeral  march,  Harry  came  to  himself.  The  tension  was  ended 
and  the  vast  congregation  prepared  to  return  to  the  common 
tasks  of  the  city’s  life.  But  Harry  made  his  way  towards  the 
great  doors  with  pangs  in  his  heart.  What  right  had  he  to 
genuflect,  like  the  real  Catholics,  to  pause  with  bowed  head  be- 
fore the  Crucifix,  to  cross  himself  with  holy  water?  How 
had  he  presumed,  in  this  Catholic  cathedral,  to  comport  him- 
self like  one  of  the  faithful  and  to  pray  for  his  Protestant 
dead  ? 

Pushing  across  the  sunny  and  now  noisy  Domhof  he  squared 
accounts  at  his  inn  and  then  hurried  to  the  station.  This 


254 


THE  HARE 


young  man  who  had  been  warned  forty-eight  hours  before 
against  patronizing  the  Catholic  Church  had  only  one  thought 
— how  to  escape  from  the  magnificent  scene  of  his  presump- 
tion into  some  obscure  and  frugal  valley  where  neither  Frei- 
herr nor  Benedictine  monk  would  make  fantastic  mistakes 
about  his  ignorance,  his  lowly  birth,  his  wandering  life,  his 
friendliness,  his  aimlessness,  his  homelessness,  his  muddled  re- 
ligion, his  fustian  name. 


CHAPTER  IX 


ON  the  wooded  mountains  of  the  Odenwald  and  in 
waterside  townlets  of  the  upper  Neckar,  Henry 
Coggin  passed  the  second  half  of  September,  tramp- 
ing, climbing,  swimming,  studying.  In  dream-like  weather  he 
witnessed  the  beginning  of  the  vintage,  just  outside  a village 
near  Neckarelz.  Learning  that  the  wines  made  thereabouts 
were  of  such  little  merit  that  they  were  all  consumed  locally, 
Harry  betook  himself  to  the  Rheingau,  fondly  imagining  that, 
as  the  wines  of  the  Steinberg  and  the  Johannisberg  were  im- 
measurably finer  than  the  coarse  juice  of  Neckarelz,  so  the 
Steinberg  grape-gathering  and  the  Johannisberg  pressing 
must  necessarily  be  far  more  interesting  than  the  jovial,  rough- 
and-ready  vintage-doings  of  Neckarelz  and  its  countryside. 

Harsh  and  dusty  fact  soon  withered  this  pleasant  fancy. 
Riidesheim  and  Geisenheim  and  Hattenheim,  Rauenthal  and 
the  Marcobrunnen  gave  no  welcome  to  the  eager  Englishman. 
Indeed,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  picture  anything  much 
more  unlike  the  vintage-time  praised  by  poets  and  by  painters. 
Where  were  the  black-eyed  olive-skinned  maidens  bearing 
laden  baskets  on  their  black  coiffures  with  the  dignity  of 
caryatides  ? Where  the  lithe  peasants,  strumming  beribboned 
guitars  ? Where  the  great  vines  clambering  up  giant  trees  or 
hanging  in  festoons  from  the  rafters  of  moss-grown  marble 
pergolas?  Where  the  huge  pendulous  clusters,  purple  and 
amber,  glowing  like  fabled  gems  in  the  green  ceiling?  In- 
stead of  these  things  there  were  hundreds  of  short-necked, 
grumbling  boors  perspiring  amidst  thousands  of  stunted  cur- 
rant-bushes stuck  in  dry  and  burning  earth.  When  Harry 

255 


256 


THE  HARE 


nervously  asked  a question  or  two  he  was  eyed  with  so  much 
suspicion  that  he  suddenly  felt  a detestation  of  these  baked 
slopes  and  parched  hearts. 

He  turned  eastward.  At  Eisenach  he  threaded  a fairy 
ravine,  in  some  places  hardly  a yard  wide,  until  he  reached 
the  castle  on  the  Wartburg,  the  throne  of  St.  Elizabeth. 
The  Minnesingers’  Hall  of  Song  had  been  made  dreadfully 
spick-and-span  by  a restorer:  but  from  Martin  Luther’s  four- 
square chamber  Harry  looked  down  on  the  Thuringian  forest 
in  its  autumn  glory  and  felt  that  at  least  one  of  his  dreams 
had  come  true. 

"Weimar  and  Gotha  and  Coburg  did  not  detain  him  long: 
but  at  Jena  Harry  lingered  two  or  three  days,  profiting  by 
the  erudition  of  a stumpy,  kindly,  ugly,  wordy  scholar  from 
the  University  whom  he  chanced  to  meet  in  a beer-garden. 
From  this  wheezy  fountain  of  knowledge  Coggin  quaffed  some 
useful  draught.  He  learned,  for  example,  wThy  there  were 
so  many  petty  princes  and  princedoms  in  Germany;  and 
how,  through  delay  in  adopting  the  principle  of  primogeniture, 
the  once  great  land  of  Saxony  had  been  chipped  into  Saxe- 
Eisenaeh,  Saxe-Weimar,  Saxe-Coburg,  Saxe-Gotha,  Saxe- 
Altenburg,  Saxe-Saalfield,  Saxe-Hildburghausen,  and  other 
Saxes  too  many  to  mention.  He  was  told,  further,  that  if  it 
had  not  been  for  all  this  division  and  sub-division,  Saxony 
and  not  Prussia  would  have  become  the  leading  German  King- 
dom. Over  a pot  of  Pilsener  which  looked  nearly  as  tall  as 
himself,  the  scholar  confided  to  Harry  a political  prophecy. 
Germany,  he  said,  was  bound  to  become  a great  and  united 
Empire  as  a safeguard  against  the  Emperor  Louis  Napoleon 
and  his  ambitious  wife.  In  one  sense  this  would  be  a glorious 
event,  and  the  mere  thought  of  it  made  every  true  German 
heart  beat  faster.  But  he  feared  it  might  bring  immeasur- 
able evils  in  its  train;  because  the  Prussians  instead  of  the 
Saxons  would  usurp  the  hegemony  and  wield  power.  He 


THE  WANDERER 


257 


finished  by  drinking  deeply  to  Harry  as  an  Anglo-Saxon  and, 
by  using  an  unacademic  word  to  express  what  he  would  do 
if  he  met  an  Anglo-Prussian. 

Resuming  his  journey,  Harry  hung  reverently  about  Halle : 
for  was  it  not  the  birthplace  of  Handel?  In  Dresden  he 
spent  only  a few  hours,  because  he  chanced  to  dearn,  from  a 
fellow  visitor  to  the  Sistine  Madonna,  that  there  was  to  be 
a specially  interesting  “Abendunterhaltung”  that  self-same 
Friday  evening  at  Mendelssohn’s  famous  Conservatoire  in 
Leipsic.  One  of  the  few  definite  items  in  Harry’s  program 
was  to  visit  Leipsic  with  a view  to  settling  down  there  for 
twelve  months  under  eminent  masters  of  piano-playing  and 
composition. 

The  Abendunterhaltung,  a regular  Friday  fixture,  was  held 
in  a bare-looking  plastered  room  which  became  fearfully  hot. 
Henry  Coggin  sweltered  in  the  midst  of  lost  illusions.  In- 
stead of  breathing  an  ample  atmosphere  of  manly  art  he 
seemed  to  be  sharing  scanty  oxygen  with  schoolma’ams  and 
favorite  pupils.  Many  fine  compositions  were  played  under 
the  frowns  or  beams  of  the  Conservatoire  professors  who  at- 
tended the  Abendunterhaltung  with  portentous  airs : but 
Harry’s  modesty  did  not  suffice  to  suppress  the  feeling  that  he 
could  teach  as  well  as  learn  in  this  far-boasted  institution. 

Firmly  believing  that  his  unfortunate  experience  had  been 
exceptional,  he  presented  himself  the  next  morning  before  the 
professors  who  had  been  most  highly  commended  to  him. 
They  were  patronizing  and  discouraging.  Indeed  they  prac- 
tically told  him  that  his  musical  studies  must  begin  over 
again.  Harry’s  humility  had  returned  to  him  and  he  might 
have  entered  his  name  meekly  at  the  Conservatoire  if  it  had 
not  befallen  that  he  strayed  into  a restaurant  at  mid-day 
which  was  the  favorite  eating-place  of  the  more  lively  English 
students.  These  young  people  swarmed  upon  Harry  like  flies, 
all  sucking  him  with  questions  at  once  about  his  musical  past 


258 


THE  HARE 


and  present.  Happily  for  the  victim  they  paid  little  heed 
to  his  few  answers  and  many  silences,  because  they  wanted 
to  do  the  chattering  themselves.  Like  the  boys  he  had  met 
during  his  two  bitter  weeks  at  school,  these  youths  spoke  a 
language  of  their  own,  composed  of  slang,  abbreviations, 
English  words  with  German  endings,  German  words  chopped 
down  into  English,  and  innumerable  cryptic  nicknames  and 
personal  allusions.  As  their  keen  blades  of  satire  flashed  in 
the  air,  Harry  shrank  back  into  his  solitariness  and  decided 
that  Leipsic  had  been  tried  and  found  wanting  so  far  as  his 
musical  plans  were  concerned.  Had  he  been  capable  of  self- 
analysis  he  might  have  perceived  at  that  moment  what  Ed- 
ward Redding  meant  by  urging  him  to  be  young. 

Tearing  himself  away  from  Leipsic ’s  book-shops,  Coggin 
moved  on  to  Berlin.  In.  1864  the  Prussian  capital  was  a dull 
and  provincial-looking  town  which  he  would  have  quitted  at 
once  if  a certain  event  had  not  turned  it  into  a city  of  en- 
chantment. In  Berlin  Harry  heard  an  opera. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  entered  a theater. 
At  Bulford-on-Deme  the  Baptists  looked  upon  the  dingy  and, 
stuffy  Theater  Royal  as  the  headquarters-tent  of  the  devil  and 
Harry  had  unconsciously  carried  round  Germany  the  feeling 
that  “theater-going”  was  not  for  him.  When,  however,  he 
saw  Der  Freiscliiitz  billed  at  the  Opernhaus  he  forgot  every- 
thing else  in  his  excitement  : and  when,  that  same  evening, 
the  gas-lights  were  turned  down  and  the  curtain  was  drawn 
up,  he  felt  that  the  proscenium  was  a great  doorway  or 
triumphal  arch  through  which  he  was  beholding  a new  world. 

Many  numbers  in  Der  Freischiltz  were  familiar  to  Harry. 
He  had  tried  them  on  the  piano  and  the  organ  and  had  even 
heard  some  of  them  performed  by  small  bands  in  German 
parks  and  beer-gardens.  But  to  hear  them  played  by  an 
opera-house  orchestra  and  sung  by  first-rate  singers  as  parts 
of  a drama,  against  a warmly-painted  and  cunningly-lighted 


THE  WANDERER 


259 


scenic  background,  was  a different  thing.  His  experience  of 
orchestras  having  been  limited  to  military  and  other  out-of- 
door  bands,  he  was  astounded  by  the  full  yet  delicate  passages 
given  to  the  strings  alone.  The  woodwind  spoke  with  a subtle 
expressiveness  which  no  organ  could  equal ; and  never  until 
that  night  had  Harry  known  the  high  majesty  of  drums  and 
trumpets. 

On  regaining  his  hotel,  the  traveler  once  more  perused  the 
long  letter  of  advice  written  four  months  earlier  by  Edward 
Redding  and  especially  the  paragraphs  about  opera-going. 
He  had  shrunk,  in  the  first  instance,  from  following  these 
counsels  and  the  matter  had  been  made  easier  for  him  by  the 
fact  that  in  June,  July  and  August,  according  to  custom,  all 
the  German  opera-houses  were  closed.  During  his  brief  stay 
in  Cologne,  the  obsequies  of  Cardinal  von  Geissel  had  in- 
volved a stoppage  of  theatrical  shows,  as  a matter  of  course. 
From  Dresden  he  hurried  to  Leipsic  without  thinking  of  the 
Court  theater ; so  that  if  Edward  Redding  had  challenged  him, 
Coggin  could  have  truthfully  answered  that  he  had  jumped 
at  the  first  opera  which  came  his  way. 

The  next  day  Harry  left  his  hotel  and  established  himself 
in  two  bare  rooms  where  he  could  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  a cold 
bath  and  a hot  fire.  The  bath  was  a new  oak  tub,  which  he 
had  to  buy  himself,  but  the  fire  burned  in  a Berliner 
kachelofen,  fed  by  hard  beechwood  logs,  of  which  his  landlady 
was  immensely  proud.  Rising  with  the  raw  October  dawn, 
this  odd  young  Englishman  helped  to  carry  his  own  batli-water 
upstairs  (for  in  a majority  of  Berlin  flats  the  water  was  not 
laid  on)  and,  when  his  frosty  ablutions  were  completed,  he 
invariably  strode  off  to  hear  Mass  in  the  curious  round  church 
of  St.  Hedwig,  near  the  King’s  palace.  On  wet  days  he  sat 
near  the  cozy  Berliner  kachelofen,  alternately  poring  over  the 
full  score  of  some  opera  which  he  had  hired  from  a library  or 
patiently  adding  to  his  already  copious  MS.  dictionary  of  Ger- 


260 


THE  HARE 


man  colloquialisms,  proverbs  and  allusions.  On  fine  morn- 
ings lie  did  not  return  home  for  breakfast  but  went  off  to 
swim  in  the  chilly  Waldsee.  His  dinner,  a hearty  meal,  was 
always  eaten  at  noon  in  the  German  burgher  fashion.  And 
by  twenty  minutes  past  six  he  was  taking  his  seat  in  the 
Opernliaus  ready  for  the  first  bar  of  the  overture. 

After  Der  Frcischiitz,  Harry  heard  Marschner’s  Vampyr, 
Lortzing’s  Undine,  Cornelius’  Barbier  von  Bagdad , and  operas 
by  Rossini  and  Verdi,  Bellini  and  Donizetti,  Auber  and  Meyer- 
beer and  Spontini.  He  ventured  to  enquire  when  Schumann’s 
Genoveva  would  be  played  and  was  smiled  at  for  his  pains. 
He  was  deeply  interested  in  a version  of  Faust  called  Mar- 
guerite by  a Frenchman  named  Gounod.  But  what  roused  his 
most  lively  expectations  and  gave  him  the  most  abundant  and 
exquisite  delight  was  a pair  of  legend-operas  by  the  hotly-dis- 
cussed Herr  Richard  Wagner.  He  thought  the  end  of  the 
second  act  of  Tannhauser  was  the  best  opera-music  he  had 
heard : yet,  on  the  whole,  he  judged  Lohengrin  the  finer  work 
of  the  two. 

It  was  while  listening  to  the  Grail-knight  ^ recital  in 
Lohengrin  that  an  odd  thought  leapt  into  Harry’s  mind. 
What  would  Mr.  Clupp  say  if  he  knew  that  he,  Harry  Coggin, 
sometime  worshiper  at  Bulford-on-Deme  Baptist  Chapel,  was 
beginning  his  day  in  a Popish  church  and  ending  it  in  an 
opera-house?  No  doubt  the  excellent  pastor’s  scanty  hair 
would  have  stood  on  end.  Yet  what  were  the  facts  as  com- 
pared with  Pastor  Clupp ’s  fancies?  At  Mass,  Almighty  God 
was  worshiped,  not  only  on  Sundays  but  every  day,  with  in- 
tense devotion.  At  the  opera,  every  night  some  hero  or  heroine 
— and  often  both  of  them,  with  a squire  and  a tiring-maid 
thrown  in — went  ecstatically  to  death,  singing  high  swan- 
songs in  praise  of  fidelity,  chastity,  honor,  loyalty  and  true 
love. 

In  Don  Giovanni  and  in  some  other  operas  there  were  ballets 


THE  WANDERER 


261 


which  would  certainly  have  horrified  Pastor  Clupp : but  the 
twirling  white  ladies  did  not  perturb  Henry  Coggin’s  pure 
mind  and,  as  the  stolid  and  solid  folk  around  him  were  as 
little  upset  as  himself,  the  young  man  accepted  these  interludes 
merely  as  inevitable  items  in  the  traditional  operatic  program. 
As  for  the  prime  donne,  or  “ goddesses’ ’ as  they  were  styled 
by  certain  Italianizing  elements  in  the  audience,  the  gifted 
creatures  were  usually  of  such  mature  age  and  of  such  ample 
proportions  that  Harry’s  dreams  were  not  tenderly  haunted 
by  remembrances  of  their  grace  and  beauty.  More  than  one, 
however,  of  these  elephantine  heroines  was  artist  enough  to 
become  transfigured  in  the  supreme  moments  of  the  opera ; and 
thus  it  fell  out  that  although  Harry  Coggin  was  never  at  the 
stage-door  with  a bouquet  for  a prima  donna,  yet  the  prima 
donna’s  tragic  queenliness  made  the  day-time  maids  and 
matrons  of  Berlin  appear  so  insipid  that  Harry  went  on  bliss- 
fully with  his  masses  and  his  operas,  his  dinners  and  his 
dictionary,  unhindered  by  even  the  slightest  preoccupation 
with  the  feminine.  He  was  working  very  hard,  copying  many 
pages  from  full  scores  before  returning  them  to  the  library, 
and  recording  on  the  copy-book  margins  his  impressions  of 
different  instrumental  combinations.  Furthermore,  he  had 
begun  to  plod  at  a grand  opera  of  his  own,  to  be  called 
Boadicea. 

Stem  winter  came  on  apace.  Harry  accepted  an  invitation 
from  a musical  family  whom  he  had  come  to  know  at  the  Opem- 
haus,  to  visit  them  at  Christmastide ; but  although  he  was 
fascinated  by  the  charming  old  German  customs  of  the  season, 
he  was  blind  to  the  coy  glances  of  blue-eyed  Gretel  and  the 
flaxen-haired  Charlotte  who  were  the  belles  of  the  Weihnachts- 
fest.  He  went  home,  without  one  twist  of  his  heart-strings, 
to  enrich  his  dictionary  with  an  unfamiliar  proverb  he  had 
heard  at  the  supper-table  and  to  jot  down  some  suspensions 
for  double-bass,  double-bassoon  and  tuba  which,  during  a 


262 


THE  HARE 


dismal  solo  on  the  piano  by  a black-browed  young  lady  named 
Adelheid,  had  struck  him  as  what  he  wanted  for  the  prelude 
to  Boadicea’s  second  act. 

The  mammas  of  Charlotte  and  Gretel  and  Adelheid  did 
not  abandon  hope.  In  their  eyes  this  leisurely  young  English- 
man was  a wealthy  dilettante  worth  winning.  Throughout 
the  New  Year  roysterings,  Harry  could  have  sat  every  night 
in  some  Berlin  house  or  flat,  eating  herring-salad  and  smoked 
goose-breast  and  pfeffer-kiichen,  had  not  the  counter-attrac- 
tion of  certain  symphony-concerts  and  of  some  new  works  at 
the  Opernhaus  proved  too  strong.  He  accepted,  however,  an 
invitation  to  a wedding. 

If  the  wisest  man  in  Germany  had  been  charged  with  the 
task  of  keeping  Harry  Coggin  at  a long  arm’s  length  from 
matrimonial  fancies  he  could  not  have  devised  means  more 
effective  than  the  marriage  of  Ida  Borchardt  with  Julius 
Rodenstock.  Harry  could  understand  elemental  passion  and 
he  could  believe  in  romantic  love,  although  he  had  never 
known  its  power.  But  his  clean  and  sterling  spirit  was  re- 
volted by  the  sickly  philandering  and  mawkish  gush  which 
surcharged  the  atmosphere.  The  so-called  lovers,  were  not 
content  merely  to  hold  hands  before  their  intimates.  They 
kissed,  they  fawned,  they  cuddled  under  the  admiring  glances 
of  Herr  Papa  and  Frau  Mamma.  What  sickened  Harry  most 
was  the  knowledge,  which  he  had  gathered  from  the  tittering 
lips  of  Julius  himself  at  a bachelor  supper  a night  or  two 
before,  that  the  amorous  Brautigam  had  not  the  faintest  in- 
tention of  breaking  certain  arrangements  by  which  he  had 
been  enlivening  his  loneliness  for  some  years  past.  As  for 
the  Braut,  although  she  was  unable  to  name  one  young  matron 
of  her  acquaintance  who  had  not  immediately  become  a mere 
hausfrau,  she  turned  up  her  eyes  and  sighed  over  the  doggerel 
poems  which  were  recited  in  her  honor  as  if  she  had  been  one 
of  Parnassus’  aery  Muses  gracing  a banquet  of  nectar  and  am- 


THE  WANDERER  263 

brosia  instead  of  a ponderable  young  woman  seated  in  the 
midst  of  Westphalian  hams  and  Pilsener  beer. 

One  January  morning  the  week’s  lists  of  music  came  out 
with  practically  nothing  in  them  save  repetitions  of  operas 
and  suites  and  symphonies  which  Harry  had  already  heard. 
It  was  such  a magnificent  winter  day — a hard  frost,  a clear 
sky,  a windless  air — that  the  traveler  decided  to  move  still 
further  eastward,  towards  the  frontier  of  Russia.  He  wished 
to  see  the  five-naved  Marienkirche  in  Danzig  and  to  visit 
Konigsberg,  the  old  capital  of  Prussia. 

A sudden  change  in  the  weather,  followed  by  a heavy  fall 
of  snow,  blocked  the  railway,  and  Harry  left  the  train,  late 
on  a Thursday  evening,  at  a small  town  in  Pomerania.  He 
was  quickly  established  in  a gasthaus  which  surprised  him 
by  its  comforts.  His  enquiries  had  taught  him  that  these 
eastern  tracts  of  Prussia  exceeded  other  parts  in  agricultural 
prosperity.  The  holdings  were  large,  after  the  English 
fashion,  thus  giving  the  Junker  proprietors  an  immense  ad- 
vantage over  the  small  western  yeomen  whom  Harry  had 
pitied  as  he  saw  them  wasting  horse-power  and  man-power  in 
the  tillage  of  farms  so  absurdly  divided  that  a holding  of 
less  than  fifty  acres  was  sometimes  scattered  over  more  than 
a hundred  little  patches,  here,  there,  and  everywhere. 

The  wdne-list  of  the  inn  deepened  this  impression  of 
opulence.  Over  and  above  the  familiar  growths  of  the 
Rheingau  and  its  rivals,  the  cellars  boasted  several  generous 
wines  of  Burgundy.  Harry  ordered  a bottle  of  old  Corton. 
The  comfortable  red  juice  made  a welcome  change  from  the 
white  wines  and  light  lager-beers  which  he  had  been  drink- 
ing. The  dining-room  was  well  warmed  by  a porcelain  stove ; 
the  soup  was  true  soup  and  not  merely  hot  water  from  the 
boiled  beef:  the  veal,  the  chicken,  the  venison  were  succulent 
and  well-dressed:  the  omelet  blazed  gaily  with  the  lavish 


264* 


THE  HARE 


aid  of  flavory  Kirscliwasser ; and  the  coffee  was  innocent  alike 
of  dandelion-roots  and  of  roasted  acorns.  Harry  began  to 
feel  that  Germany  grew  better  the  nearer  he  approached  the 
rising  sun. 

During  supper,  a bluff  and  masterful  German  who  had  been 
informed  by  the  landlord  of  the  newcomer’s  nationality, 
struck  up  conversation  in  English,  without  troubling  to  ask 
whether  his  fellow-guest  could  speak  German.  Harry  re- 
plied in  English ; partly  because  of  his  perennial  modesty  and 
partly  because  it  was  a real  pleasure  to  hear  his  native  tongue 
once  more.  The  German’s  command  of  English  grammar  was 
feeble  and  his  vocabulary  was  as  meager  as  it  was  inexact; 
but  this  did  not  hinder  him  from  explaining  England’s  as 
well  as  Prussia’s  and  Hanover’s  and  Bavaria’s  and  Austria’s 
and  France’s  and  Sardinia’s  affairs  to  his  meek  auditor. 

Very  early  the  next  morning,  wTith  no  light  to  aid  him  save 
the  pale  sheen  of  the  waning  moon  on  the  drifted  snow,  Harry 
stepped  out  of  the  silent  inn  and  made  his  way  along  a bleak 
Bahnhofstrasse  towards  the  center  of  the  sleeping  town.  Ar- 
riving in  the  market-place  he  asked  a watchman  the  way  to 
the  Catholic  church.  The  watchman  could  hardly  have  been 
more  astounded  if  he  had  been  asked  the  whereabouts  of  the 
nearest  Temple  of  Diana  or  the  shortest  cut  to  a Mohammedan 
mosque.  He  replied  that  there  was  no  Catholic  church. 

Harry  thanked  him  and  turned  away.  The  battered  old 
moon  had  slunk  behind  a cloud.  As  he  passed  the  end  of  a 
side-street  which  ran  into  the  square  a bitter  wind  nearly 
blinded  him  with  a lash  of  icy  flakes  torn  from  a neighboring 
snow-drift.  Hurrying  on,  he  gained  shelter  under  the  huge 
lee  of  a church ; but  no  ruddy  lamp  or  starry  candle  twinkled 
through  the  big  windows.  The  doors  were  shut,  the  gates  were 
padlocked. 

A gruff  voice  aroused  Harry  Coggin.  The  watchman  had 
followed  him. 


THE  WANDEREft 


265 


“When  does  the  church  open?”  Hairy  asked.  For  the  sake 
of  Latin  and  because  he  had  come  to  understand  the  cere- 
monies, Harry  had  stuck  to  Catholic  churches  for  his  morn- 
ing devotions  ever  since  his  first  and  ever-memorable  experi- 
ence of  them  in  Amsterdam.  But  he  still  considered  himself 
a Protestant  and  he  once  more  began  to  blame  himself  for  not 
having  frequented  a Lutheran  church  in  Berlin  instead  of 
St.  Hedwig’s.  According  to  a book  he  had  been  reading, 
Lutheranism  stood  midway  between  Anglicanism  and  Ro- 
manism. When  visiting  Lutheran  churches  these  last  few 
months  to  examine  their  architecture,  he  had  noticed  crucifixes 
and  confessional-boxes.  The  Lutheran  Mass  ought  to  be  very 
interesting,  although  it  would  be  in  Cerman  and  not  in  Latin. 

“When  does  the  church  open?”  echoed  the  watchman,  begin- 
ning to  be  suspicious  and  angry.  “You  must  be  mad.  To- 
day is  only  Friday.  It  opens  on  Sunday,  of  course ; more  than 
forty-eight  hours  from  now.” 

His  tone  and  manner  conveyed  a hint  which  could  not  be 
disregarded.  There  was  nothing  for  Harry  to  do  but  return 
to  the  inn  where  he  found  some  slight  comfort  in  perusing  the 
Latin  prayers  and  lessons  which  he  knew  were  being 
enunciated,  that  very  hour,  at  a thousand  Catholic  altars. 
None  the  less,  his  desire  to  attend  a Lutheran  service  remained ; 
and  as  the  railway  running  northeastward  was  still  blocked, 
he  waited  quietly  for  Sunday,  alternately  working  at  his 
dictionary  of  colloquialisms  and  ransacking  the  smaller  shops 
for  gay  pottery  and  colored  engravings  and  toys  to  be  sent 
in  due  course  to  Edward  Redding. 

Sunday  dawned — a beautiful  day,  with  a return  of  hard 
frost  and  clear  skies,  and  Harry  duly  went  to  church.  The 
experience  puzzled  him  even  more  than  it  disappointed  him. 
Excepting  two  or  three  official-looking  personages  there  was 
hardly  a man  in  the  congregation,  and  not  very  many  women 
and  children.  He  had  heard  that  church-going  was  not  the 


266 


THE  HARE 


strong  point  of  Protestant  Prussia,  but  this  almost  complete 
indifference  of  the  population  to  public  worship  astounded 
him.  Not  that  there  was  much  in  the  service  to  attract  the  in- 
different. Instead  of  Mass  the  Herr  Pastor  plodded  through 
a routine  so  bare  of  churchly  pomp  and  circumstance  that 
even  the  rather  “low”  matins  in  Bulford  parish  church  would 
have  seemed  stately  and  reverential  in  comparison.  The  at- 
mosphere was  that  of  Pastor  Clupp’s  chapel,  less  the  fervor. 

Throughout  the  sermon,  which  was  devoted  to  proving  that 
the  “so-called  Gospel  according  to  St.  John”  could  not  have 
been  written  until  two  generations  after  St.  John’s  death, 
Harry  Coggin  glanced  about  the  building.  In  every  Catholic 
church,  even  the  poorest,  there  was  something  to  see — an  altar 
or  a window,  a statue  or  a painting,  a reliquary  or  a tapestry. 
Here  there  was  nothing  for  the  poor  bored  children  to  stare 
at  while  the  preacher  discoursed  above  their  heads — nothing 
save  one  large  Crucifix. 

Before  long,  Harry  had  counted  the  pillars  and  windows 
till  he  knew  them  by  heart,  and  he  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the 
Figure.  From  childhood  he  had  been  blessed  with  such  a 
lively  faith  in  the  historic  truth  and  continuous  reality  of  the 
Incarnation  that,  in  moments  of  perplexity,  he  was  wont  to 
talk  to  his  Divine  Lord  as  if  to  some  visible  and  tangible 
friend.  On  this  January  morning  the  nearly  empty  church 
was  very  cold;  and,  as  Harry  stood,  strange  thoughts  came 
into  his  head  and  a strange  trouble  chilled  his  heart. 

Morning  after  morning  for  seven  months  he  had  knelt  face 
to  face  with  a Crucifix.  And  in  all  his  meditations  on  the 
Sacred  Passion,  he  had  thought  of  that  almost  nude  Figure 
being  scorched  under  an  Eastern  sun.  He  had  thought  of 
that  distressful  cry  “I  thirst,”  as  a cry  for  cool  water  or  for 
sharp  vinegar.  But  suddenly,  while  the  Lutheran  pastor 
prosed  on,  he  seemed  to  behold  the  stripped  Body  shiver- 
ing in  an  arctic  wind  of  unbelief,  and  he  seemed  to  hear 


THE  WANDERER 


267 


an  “I  thirst”  which  was  a cry  for  the  warm  and  gen- 
erous wine  of  human  love.  He  remembered  some  Latin 
words  which  he  had  seen  on  many  a Catholic  altar  cloth: 
Deliciae  meae  esse  cum  filiis  hominum,  “My  delights  are  to 
be  with  the  children  of  men.”  He  remembered  too  many 
strange  Catholic  statues  showing  the  Most  Holy  Redeemer 
pointing  to  His  own  heart,  a heart  laid  bare  and  all  on  fire. 

The  mid-day  meal  was  even  better  than  usual:  this  being 
the  principal  Prussian  homage  to  the  Lord’s  Day.  Over  a 
roasted  suckling-pig  Harry  ventured  to  ask  his  table-acquaint- 
ance, the  broad-shouldered  Pomeranian,  to  explain  the  town’s 
apparent  indifference  to  religion.  The  Pomeranian  answered 
bluntly  that  Harry  was  now  in  the  “enlightened”  part  of  Ger- 
many where  fanaticism  and  superstition  had  been  long  out- 
grown : that  religion  was  all  very  well  for  children  and  women ; 
and  that  he  counted  on  seeing,  within  ten  years,  a Kultur- 
kampf  or  layman’s  war  against  the  Catholics.  He  declared 
that  if  the  Jesuits  were  ousted  from  the  Rhineland,  Bavaria 
and  Austria  would  soon  follow  suit. 

The  traveler  went  on  to  Danzig,  to  Konigsberg,  to  Tilsit, 
visiting  some  fine  buildings,  eating  some  fine  dinners,  drink- 
ing some  fine  wine  and  hearing  some  fine  music.  But  in  all 
the  churches,  despite  their  architectural  novelties,  he  was  dis- 
mayed by  the  same  spiritual  desolation : and  everywhere  the 
Crucifix  seemed  to  fix  mournful  eyes  upon  him  and  to  murmur, 
sustinui  qui  simul  contristaretur  et  non  fuit,  consolantem  me 
quaesivi  et  non  inveni:  “I  held  on  for  some  one  to  sorrow 
with  me  and  there  was  no  man : I sought  for  some  one  to  com- 
fort me  and  I found  none.  ’ ’ 

Harry’s  was  an  acquisitive  but  not  a ratiocinative  brain. 
Beyond  correcting  misstatements  of  fact  he  rarely  argued 
with  anybody,  not  even  with  himself.  While  this  applied  to 
his  mental  life  in  general,  it  was  especially  marked  in  his  re- 


268 


THE  HARE 


ligion.  His  prodigious  memory  retained  a mass  of  theological 
formulae  and  of  ecclesiastical  history  which  many  a divinity 
student  would  have  envied : yet  religion  had  been  vital  to  him 
only  when  it  transcended  his  intellect  and  moved  mystically  in 
his  soul.  But  at  Tilsit  he  began  to  think.  The  Protestants 
claimed  to  have  snatched  perishing  Christianity  just  in  time 
from  the  smothering  corruption  of  Rome;  and  they  spoke 
of  the  birth-time  of  their  new  religion  as  the  “ Reforma- 
tion.’ 9 Yet,  after  little  more  than  three  hundred  years, 
Christianity  was  practically  dead  in  Germany,  its  own  cradle, 
or  at  least  in  those  parts  of  Germany  where  Protestantism 
had  had  things  all  its  own  way.  Harry  had  read  many  articles 
about  a “Branch”  theory  of  religion.  He  now  understood 
what  must  be  the  fate  of  every  branch  separated  from  the 
parent  tree,  and  this  leafless,  sapless  Lutheranism  reminded 
him  of  his  Lord’s  own  words  about  the  withered  branch,  fit 
only  to  be  cast  into  the  fire  and  burned. 

Not  that  he  rushed  to  this  conclusion.  On  the  contrary  he 
fought  it  away  as  long  as  he  could.  The  end  came  one  day  in 
a Silesian  hotel  where  two  German  officials  overheard  Coggin 
asking  an  English-speaking  waiter  the  hours  of  the  church 
services.  Without  troubling  to  find  out  whether  the  young 
Englishman  understood  German,  the  pair  began  a loud- 
mouthed conversation  scorning  the  hypocritical  and  brainless 
English  nation  and  openly  deriding  the  Christian  religion, 
especially  the  Catholic  Church. 

When  the  insulting  duet  had  passed  all  bounds,  Harry 
pushed  back  his  chair,  walked  up  to  the  offenders  and  said, 
in  idiomatic  German  and  with  a perfect  Hanoverian  accent: 

“As  an  Englishman,  and  as  a Christian  who  respects  the 
Catholic  religion,  I request*  that  you  will  either  discontinue 
this  conversation  or  conduct  it  in  a lower  tone  and  in  less 
insulting  terms.” 

Leaving  the  two  little  great  men  speechless  with  surprise 


THE  WANDERER 


269 


and  chagrin,  Harry  returned,  to  his  place,  where  he  very  slowly 
ate  a walnut  and  finished  his  last  glass  of  ’56  Walporzheimer. 
Then,  without  haste,  he  left  the  room.  In  the  hall,  the 
English-speaking  waiter,  a Swiss,  who  had  heard  Harry’s 
short  speech,  hurried  him  on  one  side  and  advised  him  to  leave 
the  town.  It  appeared  that  one  of  the  officials  was  a per- 
sonage who  could  give  travelers  a lot  of  trouble  with  their 
passports,  by  reason  of  the  nearness  of  the  Russian  frontier. 
Harry  Coggin,  however,  had  already  decided,  some  hours 
before,  to  leave  Prussia  and  to  visit  Bavaria.  There  was 
an  Opernliaus  in  Munich,  and  many  famous  pictures  too. 

In  the  train  to  Berlin,  where  he  must  needs  pack  his  be- 
longings, Harry’s  fellow-passengers  were  startled  at  hearing 
him  laugh  a short,  unhappy  laugh.  It  had  suddenly  occurred 
to  this  lonely  youth  that  he,  Harry  Coggin,  whom  Edward 
Redding  was  determined  to  change  into  a German,  had  just 
been  standing  up  for  England;  and  that  he,  Henry  Coggin, 
a Protestant  and  possibly  a Baptist,  had  just  thrown  down  a 
gage  as  champion  of  the  Catholic  Church. 


CHAPTER  X 


T Munich  in  the  eighteen-sixties  the  swarming  artists 


took  themselves  very  seriously.  Art  was  spelt  with 


such  a large  and  curly  capital  A that  cynical  visitors 


from  England  and  France  indulged  themselves  in  many  a 
sly  gibe  at  the  miles  of  gaudy  frescoes  and  the  battalions 
of  shivery  statues.  Harry  Coggin,  however,  had  not  yet 
learned  to  be  cynical.  Although  his  travels  had  lasted  eight 
months  they  had  not  effaced  the  harsh  memories  of  his  long 
years  in  Bulford  when  Art  could  be  worshiped  only  fitfully 
and  stealthily.  To  him  this  big  town,  where  vast  new  build- 
ings grew  up  before  his  very  eyes  and  where  new  symphonies 
and  operas  were  being  composed  by  men  whom  he  knew  by 
sight  in  the  cafes,  Avas  an  Athens.  Nay,  it  was  something  more 
and  something  better : because,  over  and  above  the  artistic  and 
courtly  life  of  the  Bavarian  capital,  there  were  the  fast-en- 
suing wonders  of  the  Roman  Catholic  calendar.  Five-sixths 
of  the  citizens  were  Catholics ; and,  from  the  royal  personages 
downwards,  they  gloried  in  adorning  the  great  festivals  of 
the  Church  with  full  military  and  civic  honors. 

As  Holy  Week  in  1865  fell  before  mid- April,  the  solemn 
offices  of  Tenebrae  were  sung  in  a darkness  made  visible  by 
dwindling  tapers.  Although  Harry ’s  expectations  of  Tene- 
brae had  run  high  they  were  overpassed  by  the  event.  In  this 
Munich,  where,  three  hundred  years  before,  Orlandus  Lassus 
had  lived  and  worked,  the  tradition  of  unaccompanied  poly- 
phonic music  Avas  not  dead.  Throughout  Passiontide  the  or- 
gans and  the  noisy  church-orchestras  were  hushed.  Dust  gath- 
ered on  the  exuberant  scores  of  Haydn  and  Mozart  and  Schu- 


270 


THE  WANDERER 


271 


bert ; and  the  austerely  lovely  tone-garlands  of  Palestrina  and 
his  peers  were  reverently  twined  about  the  solemn  ceremonies. 
At  Bulford-on-Deme  there  had  been  few  reminders  of  Holy 
Week  beyond  the  long  gospels  at  Morning  Prayer,  the  hot-cross 
buns  on  Good  Friday  and  a few  flowers  (which  some  parishion- 
ers resented  as  a Popish  innovation)  in  the  chancel  of  St. 
Michael's  on  Easter  Sunday.  But  in  Munich  one  touching 
rite  followed  hard  upon  another. 

On  Palm  Sunday,  amidst  the  strange  old  Bavarian  architec- 
ture of  the  Frauenkirehe,  Harry  followed  the  great  proces- 
sion until  he  stood  in  the  open  air  beneath  the  cupola-crowned 
towers  and  heard  cantors  within  the  church  answering  the 
choristers  without,  while  the  Archbishop  of  Munieh-Freising 
and  his  court  waited  for  the  moment  when  the  doors  should  be 
flung  open  and  they  should  reenter  the  church  singing  a glad 
hymn,  like  the  first  Palm  Sunday  throng  pouring  into 
Jerusalem.  He  was  present  at  the  golden  pomps  of  Maundy 
Thursday:  at  the  Blessing  of  the  Oils,  the  Procession,  the 
Washing  of  Feet,  the  Stripping  of  the  Altars.  In  deepest 
awe  he  heard  the  Reproaches  on  Good  Friday  morning  while 
the  doors  of  the  empty  tabernacle  stood  open  wide:  but  his 
humility  forbade  him  to  join  the  black-coated  citizens  in 
adoring  the  Cross,  and  when  they  pressed  forward  to  kiss 
a great  ivory  crucifix  he  slipped  behind  a pillar  out  of  sight. 
On  Holy  Saturday  he  was  among  the  first  in  the  cathedral 
porch  to  see  the  smiting  together  of  flint  and  steel  and  the 
lighting  of  the  new  fire.  And  on  Easter  Sunday,  when 
Schubert  and  the  drums  and  trumpets  and  fiddles  and  clarinets 
were  in  full  blast  once  more,  he  felt  as  if  a long  night  of 
noble  sorrow  had  suddenly  surrendered  to  a headlong,  blind- 
ing dawn  and  that  the  Lord  was  risen  indeed. 

Lent  being  ended,  the  Opemhaus  re-opened  with  Lucia  di 
Lammermoor.  Harry  was  making  his  way  to  the  box-office 
when  he  was  checked  by  a feeling  almost  of  nausea.  If  the 


272 


THE  HARE 


piece  had  been  Lohengrin,  that  chaste  legend  of  the  Knight 
of  the  Holy  Grail  set  forth  in  music  of  unworldly  strength 
and  sweetness,  he  would  have  been  eager  to  hear  it  once  again. 
But  from  Lucia  di  Lammermoor  he  turned  back.  The  stock 
operas,  with  their  amours  and  intrigues  and  assassinations, 
their  bombastic  orchestration,  their  glib  recitatives,  their 
trashy  vocal  displays,  had  turned  bitter  and  dusty  in  his 
mouth. 

Spring  called  him;  and  he  followed  her  for  thirty  miles 
across  the  heaths  and  through  the  forests  and  up  the  flower- 
clad  hills  until  he  lost  her  in  the  high  mountains  and  stumbled 
against  Winter,  her  white-bearded  father,  still  gazing  blankly 
at  the  glaciers  and  the  virgin  snow.  After  a perilous  ad- 
venture he  halted  in  Ulm  to  repair  damages;  and  there  a 
strange  thing  befell. 

Again  and  again  Harry  had  listened  to  rapturous  descrip- 
tions of  a new  organ  in  Ulm  which  boasted  a hundred  stops 
and  was  the  largest  in  Germany.  With  difficulty  he  obtained 
leave  to  try  this  vast  machine.  Its  tone  and  touch  did  not 
wholly  please  him.  On  turning  round  at  the  end  of  half 
an  hour  he  found  he  had  an  auditor,  who  proved  to  be  no 
less  than  a retired  Hofkapellmeister.  After  some  compli- 
ments, the  Hofkapellmeister  asked  for  and  was  given  the 
young  Englishman’s  name. 

“Coggin,”  he  echoed.  “Coggin.  So?  Perhaps  it  is  a 
common  name  in  England.  Now,  can  you  tell  me  anything 
about  Henry  Coggin,  the  composer?” 

Harry  started  violently.  As  he  had  never  breathed  a word 
in  Germany  about  his  compositions  it  did  not  occur  to  him  at 
first  that  “ Henry  Coggin,  the  composer”  was  none  other  than 
himself.  He  took  it  that  he  had  a double — some  cleverer 
and  grander  and  happier  Henry  Coggin  who  could  really  write 
original  music.  Here  was  a fresh  complication.  But  while 
he  was  standing  aghast  the  Hofkapellmeister  solved  the  riddle 


THE  WANDERER 


273 


by  fumbling  in  a cupboard  beside  the  organ  and  by  produc- 
ing a familiar  volume.  It  was  the  ill-starred  album  of  short 
pieces  for  the  organ  which  Harry  had  published  two  years 
before. 

If  Pastor  Clupp  had  suddenly  bobbed  up  in  the  carved 
pulpit  of  this  Ulm  church — it  claimed  to  be  the  biggest 
Protestant  church  in  the  world — and  had  given  out  Hymn 
Number  Four  Hundred  and  Twenty-nine,  Harry  could  not 
have  been  more  astonished.  Observing  his  stupefaction  the 
Hofkapellmeister  explained. 

“ These  pieces  were  given  to  me,”  he  said,  “by  one  of  your 
compatriots,  a Herr  Redding,  whom  I met  with  his  family 
in  the  Schwarzwald.  They  had  received  them  by  post  from 
the  composer.  I perceive  that  you  are  Herr  Coggin  and  I am 
honored  to  make  your  acquaintance.  I am  proud  to  grasp  the 
hand  of  the  man  who  wrote  this  piece  alia  capella  in  C Minor. 
Whenever  I play  it,  I seem  to  hear  five  voices  executing  some 
noble  polyphonic  motet  of  three  hundred  years  ago.  You 
did  not  write  it  to  please  the  public.  In  some  of  your  other 
pieces  I find  that  you  have  bathed  in  the  pure  stream  of 
HandePs  genius.  We  undervalue  Handel  in  Germany  to- 
day: perhaps,  because  he  tried  to  turn  Englishman.  I am 
glad  to  see  how  deeply  you  have  studied  his  organ  eoncerti 
and  his  harpsichord  pieces  as  well  as  his  oratorios.  When 
our  poor  Schubert  met  with  HandePs  work  he  saw  at  once 
how  deficient  was  his  own  musical  equipment:  but  it  was 
rather  lateP’ 

The  old  musician  turned  lovingly  the  well-worn  pages, 
praising  here  and  blaming  there.  At  last  he  said : 

“Your  reverence  for  the  great  masters  of  counterpoint  and 
fugue  has  delighted  me.  But  I fear  you  have  too  much  ne- 
glected your  contemporaries.  There  is  a Zeitgeist , a spirit  of 
the  age,  which  has  its  just  claims  upon  us  artists.  Your  com- 
positions are  too  insular.  I suppose  you  have  come  to  Ger- 


274 


THE  HARE 


many  to  study.  Are  you  one  of  the  young  Englishmen  I hear 
about  at  Leipsic?” 

In  as  few  words  as  possible  Harry  narrated,  his  Leipsic  ex- 
perience. But  he  did  not  add  that  he  had  hurried  away 
from  Mendelssohn’s  Conservatoire  because  of  those  very 
young  Englishmen  the  Ilofkapellmeister  had  mentioned.  He 
explained  that  he  was  not  absolutely  dependent  on  music 
for  a livelihood  and  that  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  could 
not  contemplate  beginning  to  learn  the  pianoforte  all  over 
again.  His  tutors  and  professors,  he  added,  were  the  con- 
ductors and  singers  and  players  at  the  opera-houses,  the 
organists  and  choirs  in  the  churches,  the  pianists  and  violinists 
and  vocalists  at  the  concerts. 

“In  Germany,”  answered  the  Hofkapellmeister,  “that 
would  not  be  the  surest  road  to  a career.  No  doubt  England 
is  different.  I see  you  are  a true  Englishman.  So  keep 
your  insularity  and  resist  our  German  ideas.  Go  back  to 
conduct  The  Messiah  and  Mendelssohn’s  English  Elijah  in  the 
way  your  countrymen  prefer  and  understand.  You  are 
shrewd.  None  the  less,  I see  you  are  a talented  and  intelligent 
young  man  and  I will  do  you  a service,  I will  write  you  a 
letter  of  communication  to  my  old  friend  Richard  Wagner  in 
Munich.  He  is  a great  man,  a very  great  man : but  in  your 
country  he  is  ignorantly  attacked  and  misrepresented.  His 
work  must  be  preached,  like  a musical  gospel.  You  will  meet 
Herr  Wagner  at  the  most  important  moment  of  his  career. 
Tell  me  which  gasthaus  you  are  staying  in  and  I will  send 
you  the  letter  to-day.” 

When  Harry  returned  to  Bavaria  with  the  precious  letter 
in  his  pocket,  he  found  Wagner’s  name  in  all  the  newspapers 
and  on  half  the  tongues  of  Munich.  King  Ludwig  had  ended 
the  famous  composer’s  long  battle  with  poverty  by  granting 
him  a seemly  house  and  income  and  had  bidden  him  realize 


THE  WANDERER 


275 


his  magnificent  project  of  operatic  reform  at  the  royal  ex- 
pense. Wagner  had  decided  to  begin  with  a festival  perform- 
ance of  Tristan  und  Isolde,  a work  which  had  been  discussed 
for  years  but  never  once  presented  on  the  stage. 

Remembering  the  Ulm  Hofkapellmeister ’s  complaint  about 
English  irreverence  towards  Wagner,  Harry  Coggin  was 
amazed  at  finding  the  Germans  themselves  busily  trying  to 
disable  the  creator  of  Lohengrin  by  a daily  fusillade  of 
calumny  and  insult.  He  was  dubbed  a dandy,  a glutton,  a 
voluptuary  in  whose  extravagant  and  luxurious  home  even  the 
Grand  Turk  would  have  felt  quite  at  ease.  He  was  accused 
alternately  of  republicanism  and  of  an  absolutist  conspiracy 
with  King  Ludwig.  It  was  hinted  that  in  Saxony  he  had 
stealthily  set  fire  both  to  an  opera-house  and  a palace  out  of 
pure  spite.  As  for  his  musical  plans,  he  was  roundly  cursed 
as  an  interloper  and  a charlatan. 

Harry’s  first  modest  visit  to  Wagner’s  house  was  brief: 
but  it  sufficed  to  sweep  once  for  all  from  his  mind  the  non- 
sense he  had  heard  concerning  an  Arabian  Palace  of  Delight. 
Everybody  in  and  about  the  place  seemed  tremendously 
earnest  and  busy.  The  Meister  did  not  appear:  but,  together 
with  a polite  excuse,  he  sent  to  his  young  visitor  a card  of 
admission  to  the  Hauptprobe  or  full  rehearsal  of  Tristan  on 
the  Friday  following. 

The  Hauptprobe  dispelled  all  doubts  as  to  Wagner’s  mean- 
ing in  calling  his  work  a “festival”  play.  It  recalled  the 
feast-days  of  the  Greeks,  when  Aeschylus  and  Sophocles  and 
Euripides  brought  forth  of  their  best  and  when  song  and 
dance  were  performed  in  a deeply  religious  spirit.  Coggin 
found  that  Tristan  had  been  expressly  separated  from  the 
repertory  of  the  royal  opera-house  and  that  the  event  was 
independent  of  the  box-office.  It  was  to  be  the  herald  of  a 
musical  revolution  even  more  momentous  than  Monteverde ’s. 

Before  the  auditorium  lights  were  lowered  a man  of  master- 


276 


THE  HARE 


ful  appearance  took  possession  of  the  conductor’s  desk.  Was 
this  Wagner?  No.  A student  at  Harry’s  elbow  whispered 
that  it  was  Hans  von  Biilow  and  that  Richard  Wagner  had 
decided  to  witness  the  Hauptprobe  from  the  dark  depths  of  a 
box. 

Harry  knew  already  that  in  Tristan  Wagner  claimed  to  have 
taken  a long  musical  stride  forward  from  Lohengrin — a stride 
longer  than  the  stride  which  divided  Lohengrin  from  Rienzi. 
But  what  he  heard  was  not  a stride : it  was  the  breadth  of  a 
world.  Throughout  four  hours  which  might  have  been  four 
minutes  or  might  have  been  four  hundred  years  he  sat  in 
thrall  to  the  music. 

While  hearing  Tannh.duser  and  Lohengrin  Harry  had  felt 
like  a man  being  shown  through  a royal  palace;  admiring 
the  state  apartments,  the  furniture,  the  pictures,  the  statuary, 
in  their  order:  pausing  to  glance  through  a window  at  the 
lakes  and  fountains  and  rose-brakes  of  the  pleasaunce;  bend- 
ing a knee  in  the  dim  chapel;  shuddering  in  the  dungeons; 
climbing  the  steep  spiral  of  the  keep ; and  finally  gazing  down 
over  the  battlements  at  the  whole  wonder  of  roofs  and  court- 
yards, of  moats  and  gardens,  of  bridges  and  towers.  In  these 
two  operas,  the  fanfares,  the  processional  marches,  the 
serenades,  the  cavatinas,  the  duets,  the  choruses  were  ar- 
tistically connected  and  contrasted;  but  they  were  “ num- 
bers’’ which  gave  the  hearer  a feeling  that  he  wTas  walk- 
ing along  a gallery  and  coming  upon  one  fine  thing  after 
another. 

Tristan  was  not  so.  With  the  first  swellings  of  the  prelude, 
Harry  felt  as  if  he  were  living  with  sharpened  intellect  and 
senses  but  without  will-power  in  a cradle  of  bulrushes  or  in 
Lohengrin’s  faerie  barque.  The  flood  of  mysterious  melody 
deepened  under  him  until  he  felt  that  he  was  afloat  and  drift- 
ing with  the  stream.  He  did  not  have  to  attend  deliberately 
to  the  music : because  the  clamorous  tide  was  below  him  and 


THE  WANDERER 


277 


around  him,  before  him  and  behind  him.  The  curtain  rose 
and  the  current  became  more  impetuous.  It  urged  forward, 
bearing  him  on  its  breast.  Sometimes  it  raced  foamless  and 
soundless  between  the  dank  cliffs  of  a sunless  gorge.  Once 
it  chattered  and  danced  through  a garden,  singing  its  glad 
way  under  cool  arbors  hung  with  trumpet-shaped,  flame- 
colored,  madly  scented  blossoms.  Once  it  broadened  into  a 
torpid  shallow,  sagging  wearily  through  withering  sedge  under 
a leaden  sky.  And  in  the  end,  after  darkness  had  brooded 
over  it  and  a storm  had  whipped  its  waters  into  fury,  the 
river  slid  tranquilly  into  the  sweetness  of  a dawn-reddened 
sea — a sea  murmuring  like  a greenwood  with  all  the  birds  of 
the  world  in  its  branches,  a sea  reflecting  like  a mirror  the 
immeasurable  and  eternal  heaven. 

Thrown  ashore  at  last  from  the  healing  depths  of  this  blest 
ocean,  Harry  crept  back  to  his  lodging,  like  a man  who  has 
been  snatched  from  drowning  against  his  will.  The  vivid, 
solid  men  and  women  of  Munich,  chattering  and  hurrying, 
jostled  him:  but  for  Harry  Coggin  they  did  not  exist.  His 
ears  were  still  filled  with  the  shrilling  of  the  west  wind  in  the 
cordage  of  Sir  Tristan ’s  ship,  with  the  murmurings  of  the  cool 
leaves  and  the  hidden  waters  in  King  Mark’s  garden,  with 
the  bumping  of  the  Atlantic  rollers  against  the  castle-crowned 
cliff  where  Kurwenal  and  the  young  hind  watched  wearily  for 
Queen  Isolda. 

Very  late  in  the  evening  a faintness  told  Harry  that  he  had 
forgotten  his  evening  meal.  A weinstube  was  at  hand;  so 
he  descended  the  stone  stairs  and  called  for  a round  of  black 
bread,  a little  cheese  made  of  sour  cream  and  a bocksbeutel 
of  earthy  Leistwein.  French  dainties  served  on  fair  white 
linen  in  a polite  salle-a-manger,  such  as  he  had  found  in 
one  of  the  Munich  hotels,  would  have  offended  him  at  that 
moment ; but  the  dim  and  massive  crypt  and  coarse  old-world 
fare  of  the  weinstube  prolonged  his  dream. 


278 


THE  HARE 


Two  students  at  tlie  next  table  aroused  him.  They  were 
discussing  and  condemning  Tristan  und  Isolde , on  the  ground 
that  the  libretto  was  all  compact  of  pessimism  and  atheism. 
Coggin,  who  had  still  to  learn  that  any  stick  was  good  enough 
to  beat  the  luckless  Wagner  with,  and  that  most  of  the 
champions  who  cried  out  against  the  atheism  of  Tristan  were 
men  who  had  not  darkened  a church  door  for  years,  was  on 
the  point  of  bursting  out  hotly  in  defense  of  the  Meister: 
but  his  better  judgment  prevailed.  As  the  students  desired 
an  audience  they  spoke  loudly  and  Harry  could  not  help  hear- 
ing every  word. 

His  ingrained  habit  of  rendering  full  justice  to  every  op- 
ponent asserted  itself.  These  bitter  youths  were  right.  The 
text  of  Tristan  left  much  to  be  desired,  not  only  by  devout 
Christians  but  by  simple,  ordinary,  healthy  human  beings  too. 
Its  orientalism  and  Schopenhauerism,  its  poverty-struck 
doctrine  of  immortality,  its  revolt  against  the  bright  and  eager 
daytime  and  its  longing  for  night  and  darkness  and  nothing- 
ness were  in  themselves  unwholesome,  like  strange  vegetables 
forced  in  a tomb-like  cellar.  But  as  Harry  Coggin  drank  his 
Leistwein  he  suddenly  remembered  that  Wagner’s  poem  was 
not  meant  to  be  taken  by  itself  but  as  part  of  the  whole  music- 
drama. 

It  might  be  true — no,  it  was  true  beyond  denial  that  Wagner 
the  poet  and  philosopher  was  self-conscious,  self-willed.  Pes- 
simism, atheism,  hectic  emotionalism  suffused  the  poem  with- 
out a doubt.  And  yet,  with  the  music  added,  or  rather  with 
the  music  interpenetrating  the  poem  in  every  line  and  every 
syllable,  Tristan  und  Isolde  became  an  exultant  hymn  of  faith 
and  hope  and  love.  Even  as  the  all-enveloping  pity  of  God 
descends  omnipotently  upon  poor  mortals,  despite  their  pride 
and  ignorance  and  false  philosophy,  healing  the  sickness  of 
their  souls,  bending  their  stiff  wills  and  softening  their  parched 
hearts ; so  the  music  of  Tristan,  like  a burning  sun  and  a rush- 


THE  WANDERER 


279 


ing  wind,  tore  clean  alleys  through  the  humid  thickets,  wither- 
ing and  uprooting  the  sickly-scented  creepers  and  awakening 
the  sweet,  honest  flowers  of  Spring.  Like  Balaam,  Wagner 
the  poet-philosopher  had  stood  forth  to  curse  life  and  long- 
ing; and,  like  Balaam,  the  musician  Wagner  had  been  con- 
strained to  chant  over  life  and  love  high  praises  and  rich 
blessings. 

The  students  went  away,  the  bocksbeutel  ran  dry,  the 
kellner  began  to  fidget  with  the  lamps.  Harry  paid  the  score 
and  sought  the  bank  of  the  Iser.  Watching  the  waters,  he  pur- 
sued to  its  end  the  thought  which  had  come  to  him  in  the 
wine-cellar.  Surely  the  conclusion  could  be  none  other  than 
this.  Wagner  the  writer  was  no  more  than  a certainly  gifted 
and  possibly  conceited  man.  But  Wagner  the  composer  was 
much  more  than  a gifted  and  self-confident  musician.  As  a 
musician,  the  Master  was  nothing  less  than  inspired.  That 
was  why  the  musician  overwhelmed  the  poet  without  the  poet 
knowing  it.  The  text  of  Tristan  was  like  the  spent  and  rent 
and  blackened  old  seed  which  the  gardener  finds  still  cling- 
ing to  the  strong  roots  of  a glorious  flower.  From  that  old 
seed  the  growth  began : but,  as  St.  Paul  said,  it  had  been  cast 
into  the  earth  to  die.  Harry  recalled  the  words  of  Tristan 
und  Isolde  once  more  and  understood  how,  at  the  call  of  the 
music,  like  the  moidering  dead  at  the  archangel’s  trump, 
“this  mortal  had  put  on  immortality,  this  corruption  had  put 
on  incorruption.” 

In  his  bedroom,  by  the  light  of  two  candles,  he  scanned  the 
MS.  of  .his  own  Boadicea,  The  first  act  was  complete  as  well 
as  the  pompously-scored  overture.  He  read  some  of  the 
dialogue  and  knew  that  it  was  not  more  stilted  than  the 
ordinary  opera  “book.”  He  went  through  Boadicea ’s  duet 
with  the  baritone  which  wras  accompanied  by  a seven-part 
chorus  of  priests  and  priestesses  crooning  softly  in  the 
neighboring  temple  and  by  a rich  undersong  of  ’cellos,  double- 


280 


THE  HARE 


basses  and  bassoons.  But  in  every  bar  he  saw,  as  if  he  had 
been  gazing  into  a mirror,  the  reflection  of  an  industrious, 
ambitious  earnest,  competent,  resourceful  plodder,  plodding 
away  at  his  desk  because  he  itched  to  write  an  opera  and  not 
because  he  had  an  opera  to  write.  In  some  scenes  the  music 
was  imitated  from  Weber,  from  Spontini  and  from  the  Tann- 
hduser  of  Wagner.  In  other  places  there  was  something  worse 
than  imitation;  namely  a most  insistent  effort  at  originality 
of  melody  and  harmony,  of  rhythm  and  instrumentation. 

Yes.  Boadicea  was  half  superfluous,  half  insolent,  and  it 
was  all  artificial,  all  insincere.  When  he  perceived  the  truth, 
Harry  flushed  crimson  as  if  he  had  been  detected  in  a de- 
liberate lie.  Squatting  on  the  floor  he  opened  the  porcelain 
stove  in  which  he  kindled  a fire  every  evening  as  a precaution 
against  the  sudden  waves  of  cold  from  the  Alps  which  were 
wont  to  make  Munich  shiver  on  these  nights  of  May;  and 
sheet  by  sheet  he  fed  Boadicea  to  the  cozy  flame. 


CHAPTER  XI 


HARRY  shunned  the  Opernhaus  for  three  weeks.  He 
could  not  have  endured  Lalla  Rookh  and  Marta  and 
Tine  Barber  of  Seville;  so  he  waited  for  the  evening 
of  the  second  Saturday  in  June  when  Tristan  und  Isolde  was 
to  be  publicly  performed  for  the  first  time.  Meanwhile  at- 
tacks on  the  composer  grew  more  vicious  every  day.  With- 
out classing  himself,  even  for  a single  moment,  with  the  great 
and  famous  Richard  Wagner,  Harry  Coggin  could  not  help  re- 
calling the  intrigues  which  had  ruined  his  own  little  concerts 
at  Bulford-on-Deme.  From  an  enemy  of  Wagner,  who  rolled 
the  sorry  details  like  sweet  morsels  under  his  tongue,  Harry 
learned  how  Tannhauser  had  been  howled  down  in  Paris, 
and  he  remembered  the  night  when  his  playing  of  Schumann 
was  stopped  by  yells  of  “Rags  and  Bones/ ’ He  longed  to 
stand  in  Wagner  ’s  presence  and  to  tell  the  Master  that  hence- 
forth he  would  have  at  least  one  defender  in  England. 

On  June  10,  1865,  Munich  was  allowed  to  hear  Tristan  und 
Isolde . On  that  first  night,  admission  to  the  gallery  cost 
rather  less  than  an  English  sixpence,  so  that  the  student 
partisans  of  both  sides  were  there.  Harry,  sitting  in  one 
of  the  best  seats,  was  surrounded  by  Wagner’s  reverent 
disciples.  The  poem  displeased  him  less  than  before,  while  the 
music  searched  him  still  more  deeply  and  mastered  him  still 
more  strongly.  Boadicea  had  gone  out  of  his  life  like  a big 
richly-colored  soap-bubble  which  bursts  and  leaves  only  one 
drop  of  water  behind.  And  yet,  although  his  operatic  am- 
bitions were  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  Harry  never  felt  a 
doubt  that  music  was  to  be  his  career. 

281 


282 


THE  HARE 


This  inward  persuasion  became  more  explicit  on  the  fol- 
lowing Thursday,  June  15th,  which  was  the  Feast  of  Corpus 
Christi.  On  that  day  Munich  seemed  to  become  a Holy  City, 
like  Rome  or  Jerusalem.  King  Ludwig  and  the  court,  the 
archbishop  and  the  clergy,  the  generals  and  the  troops,  the 
burgomaster  and  the  city  fathers  and  the  people,  composed  a 
magnificent  procession  in  public  honor  of  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment. The  streets  were  befiagged,  the  banging  of  cannon  an- 
swered the  clanging  of  bells,  and  little  children  flung  roses 
in  the  path  of  the  King  of  Kings.  In  one  of  the  churches, 
Harry  attended  a recital  of  Mendelssohn’s  Lauda  Sion  and  it 
dawned  upon  him  that  he,  “the  composer  Henry  Coggin”  as 
he  had  been  called  at  Ulm,  could  set  St.  Thomas  Aqyinas’ 
noble  Sequence  to  loftier  and  more  faithful  music.  That 
night  he  jotted  down  a five  part  setting  of  the  verse  Caro 
cibus , Sanguis  potus,  and  knew  that  it  was  not  unworthy  of 
the  mystic  words. 

There  were  four  performances  of  Tristan  and  Harry  was 
present  at  them  all.  On  the  days  between,  he  absented  him- 
self from  the  opera-house  and  the  concert-halls,  but  never 
missed  a high  function  in  a church.  He  was  finding  his 
musical  feet  at  last  and  the  composition  of  Lauda  Sion  went 
on  apace.  None  the  less  he  devoured  every  inch  of  print  that 
came  his  way  respecting  the  colossal  projects  of  Richard  Wag- 
ner. Though  Harry’s  own  renunciation  of  opera-writing  was 
without  reserve  and  without  remorse,  he  felt  exalted  by  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  happened  to  be  in  Munich  at  a junction 
of  such  supreme  import.  In  a tom  old  book  he  had  once  read 
that  there  was  a certain  month,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  in 
Rome,  when  Palestrina  by  composing  and  performing  three 
noble  polyphonic  masses  saved  church-music  from  being  driven 
back  into  plain  rhythmic  melody:  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
this  June  in  Munich  had  been  equally  crucial  for  the  future  of 
musical  art.  Harry  would  have  given  much  for  one  hour’s 


THE  WANDERER 


283 


talk  with  TvTagner : but  he  had  left  the  Ulm  Hof  kapellmeister’s 
letter  at  the  Master’s  house  and  could  not  rally  courage  to 
try  again. 

July  was  well  advanced  when  a very  polite  note  in  Wag- 
ner’s own  handwriting  was  brought  to  Harry’s  inn.  It  con- 
veyed an  invitation  to  visit  the  Master  on  the  morrow. 

In  good  time  Henry  Coggin,  warm  with  pride  and  tingling 
with  nervousness,  presented  himself  at  the  shrine.  He  had 
passed  and  gazed  at  the  house  so  often  that  he  was  familiar 
with  the  statuary  in  the  garden  and  with  the  projection  which 
gave  a bay-window  to  each  of  the  three  floors  of  the  building. 
Yet  somehow  the  place  looked  different.  While  he  was  wait- 
ing for  the  door  to  be  opened  Harry  found  the  cause  of  the 
change.  Every  blind  was  drawn. 

Into  a plain  room,  not  at  all  like  the  Aladdin’s  audience- 
chamber  of  the  gossips,  Wagner  came  hurrying.  Instantly 
Harry  lost  all  sense  of  the  scanty  furnishings;  because  the 
great  man  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  his  presence  and  with 
his  vehement  insistent  speech.  A frightful  thing  had  hap- 
pened. Schnorr  was  dead.  Schnorr  had  died  suddenly,  the 
night  before.  There  was  no  more  Schnorr.  And  therefore 
there  would  be  no  more  Tristan  und  Isolde . 

Herr  Julius  Schnorr  von  Carolsfeld  was  the  tenor  who  had 
filled  the  role  of  Sir  Tristan  at  the  Hauptprobe  and  at  all  the 
four  public  performances.  Harry  was  stunned  by  the  tragic 
news.  Years  before,  when  his  father’s  broken  body  was 
brought  home  by  the  light  of  lanterns  after  the  Demehaven 
railway  accident,  the  shock  had  been  terrible  enough,  but  not 
so  stupefying  as  this:  because  the  lad’s  earliest  memories  did 
not  include  a time  when  poor  William  Coggin  would  let  a 
week  pass  without  predicting  total  disablement  or  sudden 
death  for  himself  and  the  workhouse  for  his  family.  Schnorr 
von  Carolsfeld,  however,  had  seemed  to  have  been  gifted  by 
the  gods  with  immortality.  Tristan  and  Kurwenal,  Mark  and 


28 ■* 


THE  HARE 


Melot,  Isolde  and  Brangane  were  men  and  women  of  fifteen 
hundred  years  ago : yet  Schnorr  gave,  his  audience  the  feeling 
of  being  not  a tenor  star  but  Sir  Tristan  himself,  still  living 
and  loving  and  fighting.  No.  It  was  absurd  to  say  that 
Schnorr  was  dead  like  the  dead  people  lying  in  graves.  Harry 
had  seen  him  five  times  on  the  stage,  tearing  the  bandage  from 
his  mortal  wound  and  falling  dead  at  the  sandaled  feet  of  his 
white  ladye  Isolda:  but  after  every  one  of  these  five  deaths 
Schnorr  had  not  failed  to  eat  an  excellent  supper  at  a restaur- 
ant in  the  Maximiliansplatz  and  to  make  room  for  an  impres- 
sive quantity  of  dark  Munich  beer. 

Wagner  appeared  to  read  his  young  visitor’s  thoughts:  for 
he  startled  Harry  by  exclaiming  bitterly:  “Yes,  Schnorr  is 
dead  this  time,  as  dead  as  a nail.  Now  some  people  will  be 
satisfied.  They  grumbled  at  him  because  he  took  an  hour  to 
die  in  the  last  act  of  Tristan:  so  last  night  he  proved  to  them 
his  versatility  by  dying  as  quickly  as  Melot.  My  best,  my 
best ! Thou  art  gone ! I shall  not  see  thy  like  again.” 

Henry  Coggin  had  carefully  rehearsed  some  sentences  not 
unsuitable  to  a first  meeting  with  a Master.  Bravely  discard- 
ing them  he  tried  to  frame  some  phrases  of  condolence.  Wag- 
ner cut  him  short. 

“Nineteen  tenors  out  of  twenty  are  conceited  blockheads,” 
he  said,  with  rising  scorn.  “As  for  the  twentieth  . . . well, 
he  won’t  bother  to  learn  my  music.  Why  should  he  when  the 
people  prefer  Auber  ? No,  no.  For  years  to  come  my  Tristan 
is  as  dead  as  my  poor  Schnorr  himself.  Schnorr  was  like  a 
block  of  granite  for  me  to  build  upon.  Now  I must  cement 
together  a dozen  clay  bricks  in  his  place.  But  you  wanted  to 
see  me?  My  old  friend  has  written  to  me  from  Ulm  about 
you.” 

Coggin  has  been  assured  that  he  would  find  this  precious 
Meister  a loquacious  egoist,  determined  to  do  al1  ^he  talking 
and  none  of  the  listening  and  with  no  interest  in  anybody’s 


THE  WANDERER 


285 


work  and  career  save  his  own.  Wagner,  on  the  contrary,  drew 
forth,  by  rapid  questions,  a sufficient  account  of  Harry’s  musi- 
cal attainments  and  aspirations.  At  last  he  burst  out : 

‘ ‘ Thank  your  God  that  you  have  forsworn  the  theater.  The 
beginning  of  my  cursed  bad  luck  . . . Schnorr  is  dead  . . . 
was  my  being  bred  and  born  and  brought  up  among  actors  and 
actresses  and  singers  and  scene-painters  and  fiddlers.  You 
want  to  compose  church  music.  So  do  I.  Until  my  old  friend, 
now  at  Ulm,  convinced  me  that  the  editions  they  publish  at 
Regensburg  and  Mechlin  and  Gratz  are  misleading,  I studied 
the  plain-chant.  Life  is  too  short  to  examine  the  question 
for  myself.  But  you  may  be  aware  that  I have  edited  and 
conducted  works  by  Palestrina.  My  dear  young  sir,  you 
have  health  and  leisure  and  money.  Soak  yourself  in  the 
sacred  music  of  three  hundred  years  ago.  I know  of  no  other 
compositions  which  can  stir  the  heart  so  deeply.  Get  them  by 
heart  but  don’t  imitate  them.  The  world,  moves.  Ponder 
deeply  those  ancient  works  and  strive  to  develop  them  as  they 
could  have  developed  them  if  secular  music  had  not  ousted 
true  church-music  for  nearly  two  hundred  years.  I speak  of 
Palestrina;  but  even  in  his  own  sphere  and  his  own  genera- 
tion Palestrina  was  not  everybody. 

“As  for  myself,”  Wagner  continued,  “I  shall  never  write 
church-music  out-and-out.  Nevertheless,  I can  call  myself  a 
religious  composer,  Lohengrin  and  Tannhauser  are  Christian 
operas.  I have  written  religiously  for  the  theaters,  just  as 
our  modern  church  composers  have  written  operatically  for  the 
churches.  My  Nibelung’s  Ring , which  I ’m  going  to  finish 
now  that  Schnorr  and  Tristan  are  dead,  seems  to  be  about 
heathen  gods  and  people  but  it  is  a Christian  drama.  So  is 
Tristan  und  Isolde . Whenever  I mention  in  that  poem  Frau 
Minne,  the  goddess  of  love,  I mean  the  dear  God.  And  when 
The  Ring  is  finished  I shall  complete  another  music-drama, 
intensely  religious,  about  Christ.  I don’t  mean  my  Jesus  of 


286 


THE  HARE 


Nazareth  which  I laid  aside  nearly  twenty  years  ago.  Yes. 
Go  back  to  England  where  they  malign  me;  and  tell  them 
that  though  I don’t  believe  in  the  Church  I believe  in  Christ.” 

The  great  man  paused.  Feeling  obliged  to  speak  but  not 
daring  to  discuss  high  or  deep  things,  Coggin  said  politely: 
“I  was  sorry  to  hear  one  day  that  you  were  not  well  treated 
in  England.” 

“ Critics  were  paid  to  attack  me  in  the  London  papers,” 
said  Wagner,  speaking  without  heat  or  bitterness,  “and  they 
earned  every  pfennig  of  the  money.  Sometimes  I think  I 
disliked  London  because  of  the  old  noodle  who  led  me  round, 
like  a bear.  Perhaps  I didn’t  see  the  real  English.  But  I 
was  not  treated  worse  in  England  than  in  France  and  not  so 
badly  as  in  Germany.  In  Paris  we  had  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
four  rehearsals  of  Tannhduser  and  then  the  work  was  shouted 
down  on  the  first  night,  for  political  reasons  quite  outside 
art.  In  Vienna  we  had  fifty-two  rehearsals  of  Tristan.  The 
tenor  And,er  couldn’t  and  wouldn ’t  sing  the  music.  I could 
have  got  them  Schnorr ; but  they  wanted  a failure.  So  Tristan 
was  n’t  performed  in  Vienna  after  all.  In  Germany  they  lam- 
poon me  and  swindle  me.  Take  Dresden.  Lohengrin  and 
Tannhduser  are  kassenstiieke  there — ” 

“Kassenstiieke?”  echoed  Coggin,  scenting  a new  word  for 
his  dictionary. 

“Yes,  Money-earning  operas.  Box-office  successes.  But 
the  Dresden  Hoftheater  happens  to  have  a humbugging  legal 
advantage  of  me.  They  take  it  and  never  pay  me  a penny. 
Here  in  Munich  I should  starve  if  I had  not  found  a more  than 
Maecenas  in  His  Majesty  the  King.  And  so  unscrupulous  are 
the  intrigues  against  me  that  I mean  to  leave  Munich,  now 
Schnorr  is  dead,  and  to  bury  myself  in  my  work,  at  Lucerne. 
Yes.  My  young  friend,  I say  again,  thank  your  God  that 
you  are  not  in  bondage  to  the  theater.  In  short,  as  our  good 
Hofkapellmeister  has  asked  me  to  give  you  advice,  here  it  is. 


THE  WANDERER 


287 


Live  within  your  means  so  that  you  can  always  pursue  Art 
without  a thought  of  paymasters.  When  I was  writing  the 
second  act  of  Tristan  I pawned  my  watch  so  that  I should  not 
have  to  accept  money  from  persons  who  would  have  deflected 
me  a few  hair-breadths  from  my  pure  inspiration/  ’ 

‘ 4 1 don ’t  recall  that  Schumann  was  in  need  of  money  when 
he  wrote  his  opera  Genoveva ventured  Harry,  “but  it  is  not 
very  good.  ’ ’ 

“You  do  not  flatter  me  by  comparisons  with  Schumann/ ’ 
retorted  the  Master.  “Besides,  Genoveva  could  have  been 
much  better  if  Schumann  had  taken  my  advice.  I offered  to 
help  him  with  the  libretto : but  you  see  Schumann  was  a book- 
seller’s son,  so  he  concluded  he  must  be  an  expert  in  literature. 
As  an  actor  ’s  son,  I could  claim  to  be  an  expert  in  the  drama. 
But  your  Schumann  didn’t  think  so.  His  precious  opera  is 
pitiable.  Now,  you  must  excuse  me.” 

In  the  garden  a cat  and  a dog,  bumping  one  another  com- 
ically, came  rushing  to  meet  the  Master,  who  gave  the  hound 
a fond  poke  in  the  ribs  which- sent  him  rolling  over  in  the 
grass  and  then  hoisted  the  cat  upon  his  shoulder.  With  puss’s 
tail  lashing  him  softly  in  the  face,  the  creator  of  Lohengrin 
was  answering  loud  purrs  with  murmured  baby-talk  when  a 
showy  carriage  drew  up  outside. 

Instantly  all  was  excitement.  Somebody  sprang  out  of 
nowhere  and  hustled  Coggin  back  into  the  house.  Two  fas- 
tidiously dressed  personages  descended  upon  Herr  Wagner  and 
began  to  bewail  loudly  the  death  of  Schnorr  von  Carolsfeld. 
Still  talking,  the  three  disappeared  into  an  arbor.  Harry  sat 
alone  in  the  house  for  more  than  half  an  hour,  feeling  sure  that 
he  had  been  pushed  back  by  mistake  and  forgotten,  but  not 
knowing  what  to  do.  Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  his  host 
reappeared,  with  one  only  of  the  visitors. 

Although  Harry  recognized  the  new-comer’s  pensive  and 
anxious  face,  he  could  not  recall  when  and  where  he  had  seen 


288 


THE  HARE 


it.  It  was  soon  evident  that  Herr  Wagner  had  given  some 
account  of  Harry’s  nationality  and  tastes:  because  the 
stranger,  in  an  authoritative  tone,  demanded: 

“Please  tell  me  about  this  great  festival  in  London,  in 
honor  of  Handel,  in  your  Glaspalast.  You  know  we  have  a 
Glaspalast  in  Munich  also,  copied  from  your  own.  I hear  that 
there  were  hundreds  of  players  at  your  Glaspalast  and  thou- 
sands of  singers.  Give  me  your  opinion.’’ 

Harry  reflected  before  answering.  His  first  impulse  was 
to  confess  that  he  had  never  been  in  London  and  had  never 
seen  the  Crystal  Palace.  It  happened,  however,  that  the  tri- 
ennial Handel  festival,  which  was  just  over,  interested  him 
enormously  and  that  he  was  well  informed  concerning  it.  So 
he  said: 

“Gracious  Sir  ( gnadiger  Herr),  I think  this  great  festival 
does  some  good,  because  it  makes  many  thousands  of  people 
sing  Handel  or  listen  to  Handel  who  would  otherwise  know 
little  about  him.  But  it  cannot  be  acceptable  to  musicians- 
who  revere  their  art.  I do  not  see  what  is  to  prevent  the 
managers  from  increasing  the  number  of  choralists  to  fifty 
thousand:  but  the  solos  must  sound  feebler  and  feebler  as 
you  make  the  choruses  stronger  and  stronger.  I think  no 
performance  of  Handel  is  good  which  makes  the  recitatives 
thin  and  weak.  The  recitatives  should  determine  all  the  rest. 
Furthermore,  if  I am  not  mistaken,  the  band  was  intended  by 
Handel  to  be  as  numerous  as  the  chorus.” 

Coggin  was  saved  from  displaying  his  ignorance  of  English 
musical  life  by  Herr  Wagner,  who  launched  out  into  a scheme 
for  the  Glaspalast  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  Handel. 
When  the  pensive  stranger  rose  to  leave,  Coggin  moved  for- 
ward to  shake  hands  with  him,  but  this  ordinary  and  natural 
action  seemed  to  cause  something  like  consternation  and  before 
he  could  realize  what  was  happening  Harry  was  again  alone. 

He  heard  the  carriage  drive  away.  Herr  Wagner  returned 


THE  WANDERER 


289 


and  once  more  escorted  the  young  Englishman  through  the 
garden.  At  the  gate  he  tried  to  be  off-hand ; but  there  was  a 
strange  emotion  in  his  voice  as  he  said : 

“That  Gracious  Sir  as  you  called  him  is  a poet,  a philoso- 
pher, an  artist.  That  Gracious  Sir  is  destined  to  play  a great 
part  in  the  unification  of  our  divided  Germany.  That  Gra- 
cious Sir  lives  misunderstood  and  undervalued  amidst  a world 
of  self-seeking  fops  and  traitors.  For  that  Gracious  Sir  I 
may  feel  bound  in  conscience  to  sacrifice  all  my  art-plans,  all 
my  new  ease  of  mind,  so  as  to  save  him  for  Germany,  so  as  to 
lay  by  his  hand  a firm  foundation  for  German  art  in  the  fu- 
ture. That  Gracious  Sir  is  His  Majesty  the  King  of  Ba- 
varia.’ ’ 

A cat  may  not  only  look  at  a king  but  may  also  close  with 
his  tail  the  mouth  of  a courtier.  Leaping  up  from  the  grass, 
the  fluffy  animal  swarmed  up  Herr  Wagner’s  fine  coat  as 
quick  as  lightning  and  cut  short  the  discourse.  As  for  Harry 
Coggin  he  mumbled  some  meaningless  syllables  and  fled. 


CHAPTER  XII 


OUT  of  respect  for  the  Ulm  Hofkapellmeister,  Harry 
had  installed  himself  in  one  of  the  Schiitzenstrasse 
hotels,  rather  than  in  a small  gasthaus  or  pension. 
Although  this  choice  cost  him  three  pounds  a week  as  compared 
with  thirty  shillings  it  gave  him  a better  address  from  which 
to  use  his  letters  of  introduction  and  it  enabled  him  to  hear  a 
good  deal  of  Hanoverian  German  and  travelers’  French  as 
well  as  the  strange  German  of  Bavaria.  Further,  it  afforded 
him  frequent  peeps  at  English  papers,  such  as  The  Illustrated 
London  News f and  at  stray  journals  and  magazines  left  by 
passing  tourists.  It  was  from  these  sources  that  he  had  drawn 
the  facts  about  the  ’65  Handel  Festival  on  which  was  based  his 
answer  to  King  Ludwig’s  question. 

Into  this  most  respectable  hostelry  as  Harry  sat  eating  the 
rather  pretentious  evening  meal,  which  was  neither  French 
dinner  nor  German  supper,  a young  Englishman  entered. 
Striding  along  the  room  with  a masterful  but  most  genial 
air,  he  halted  at  Harry’s  table  and  exclaimed : 

“The  identical,  inoubliable,  inimitable,  inestimable  unver- 
getzlich  same!  Mr.  Coggin,  I am  delighted,  ravished,  en- 
chanted, transported,  to  renew  our  too  brief  acquaintance- 
ship.” 

Harry  quailed.  Even  before  the  new-comer  spoke  he  had 
recognized  the  wandering  young  gentleman  who  had  shown 
him  pictures  and  had  tried  to  show  him  certain  other  sights  in 
Amsterdam  over  thirteen  months  before.  He  managed  to 


answer : 


290 


THE  WANDERER  291 

‘ ‘ Good-evening,  Mr.  Huntly-Martin.  I am  pleased  to  meet 
you  again.’ ’ 

“ Can’t  say  you  look  it,”  chuckled  the  other.  “But  don't 
be  afraid.  I ’m  not  going  to  drag  you  this  time  into  dens 
or  haunts  or  lairs  of  vice  and  iniquity  and  infamy.  Truth  is, 
my  dear  Mr.  Coggin,  I ’ve  often  tried  to  kick  myself  over  that 
affair.  Went  to  your  hotel  to  say  so.  Did  n’t  even  know  your 
name  till  the  landlord  told  me.  But  you ’d  absconded.  I 
don’t  mind  admitting  you  did  me  good.  Believe  me  or  not,  as 
you  like,  but  I was  so  much  upset  that  I didn’t  stay  in  Aunt 
Tiddens’  wicked  old  hole  two  minutes.  Cleared  out  almost 
as  soon  as  you  did.  Sat  in  a cafe  as  dull  and  respectable  as  a 
church  and  wrote  good-boy  letters  home,  all  about  my  doings 
— or  nearly  all.  Hadn’t  written  for  weeks,  except  asking  the 
guv ’nor  for  more  money.  Not  sure  that  I did  n’t  even  try  to 
say  my  prayers  that  night.  No,  Mr.  Coggin,  don’t  be  offended. 
I mean  this  seriously.  I was  never  dirty-minded  and  you 
made  me  see  certain  matters  in  a new  light.  You  forgive  me?” 

“Of  course  I do,  Mr.  Huntly-Martin.” 

‘ ‘ Then  we  ’ll  both  forget.  But  the  way,  you  seem  to  find  out 
where  to  dine  and  wine.  I still  remember  that  bottle  of  Brane 
Cantenac  ’48  at  your  inn  in  Amsterdam;  and,  by  Jove,  I ’m 
inquisitive  about  what  you  ’re  eating  and  drinking  now.” 

“They  call  this  an  ink-fish.  It  comes  from  the  Adriatic. 
The  white  wine  is  Hungarian  Nessmiihler.  Allow  me  to  ask 
the  waiter  to  bring  you  some  of  the  ink-fisli  and  a glass,” 
said  Harry  cordially.  After  his  shock  at  Herr  Wagner’s 
house  that  morning,  there  was  something  fortifying  in  the 
sight  of  a fellow-countryman. 

“As  you  are  the  body,  soul  and  spirit  of  hospitality,”  an- 
swered Mr.  Huntly-Martin,  “I  will  not  only  eat  ink-fish  with 
you,  but  also  the  rest  of  the  dinner,  even  if  you  give  me  blot- 
ting-paper steaks  with  boiled  lead-pencils  and  fried  pen- 
wipers for  the  next  dish.  Moreover,  I will  drink  my  full  half 


292 


THE  HARE 


of  your  Nessfuddler,  or  whatever  you  call  it.  Fact  is,  my 
dear  fellow-Briton,  I am  here  on  business.  We  can  settle  it 
while  we  dine.” 

Harry’s  acute  anxiety  did  not  prevent  him  from  giving 
punctilious  instructions  for  his  guest ’s  comfort.  To  follow  the 
Nessmiihler,  he  ordered  a bottle  of  old  Pralatenwein  from  the 
Stiftskeller  of  the  Augustine  monastery  at  Klostemeuburg  in 
Austria.  They  ate  almost  in  silence  some  fried  breasts  of 
chickens  with  mushrooms.  Then  Mr.  Huntly -Martin  said: 

^To  a certain  or  uncertain  extent  I represent  to-night  the 
potest  as  Britannica , the  might  of  Britain.  In  my  ugly  face 
you  are  to  behold  the  fair  lineaments  of  our  most  gracious 
Sovereign  Lady  Queen  Victoria,  whom  Heaven  save.  Hear 
and  obey,  as  a loyal  liege.  ’ ’ 

Harry  was  mystified  until  he  remembered  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin’s  allusion,  at  their  first  meeting,  to  “our  Minister  at 
the  Hague.”  Seizing  upon  this  clue  he  asked:  “Do  you  mean 
that  you  are  now  attached  to  the  diplomatic  service  ? ’ ’ 

“That’s  it,”  answered  the  vicegerent  of  Majesty.  “Per- 
haps 1 semi-attached’  were  a more  precise  phrase.  Never 
mind.  The  point  is  that  I have  come  direct  from  the  British 
Minister  here  in  Munich.  In  a word*  the  Minister  has  been 
requested  to  give  information  as  to  the  social  position  and 
character  of  Mr.  Henry  Coggin  and  to  explain  why  he  stays 
so  long  in  Bavaria.  Now  look  here,  Mr.  Henry  Coggin.  I ’m 
expected  to  be  tremendously  diplomatic  about  it : but  when  I 
heard  the  name  ‘ Coggin’  I simply  said  to  myself  ‘ Well,  I ’m 
damned!  Blowed  if  it  ain’t  Saint  Coggin  of  Amsterdam.’ 
So  here  I am.  Now  then.  Thy  secret  dark  declare.  What  is 
your  real  name  and  rank?  It’s  going  to  make  a difference 
here  whether  you  are  of  noble  birth,  as  I believe  you  are.  Out 
with  your  name  or  title.” 

“I  am  Henry  Coggin,”  said  the  examinee,  with  a sinking 
heart. 


THE  WANDERER 


293 


“ Henry  Fiddlesticks.  Come,  come.  When  I was  in  Darm- 
stadt— beastly  hole,  Darmstadt — I met  an  Englishman,  Sir 
Richard  Brasher.  Told  me  about  your  races  on  the  Moselle. 
Wanted  to  know  if  I ’d  bumped  against  you  anywhere.  Said 
I had,  of  course.  Then  he  told  me  his  discovery — Coggin  and 
Incog,  you  know.  He  said  you  cheeked  it  out  and  would  n ’t 
admit  it  and  that  you  swore  your  father  was  a rag-and-bone 
man.  But  this  time,  Mr.  Incog — or  Lord  Incog,  or  whatever 
you  are — it  won’t  do,  my  boy.  We  can’t  send  you  to  Nurem- 
berg and  put  you  to  the  torture  of  the  Iron  Maiden,  though 
she ’s  only  a hundred  miles  away ; but  you  must  please  oblige 
us  by  coming  out  of  this  incognito.” 

“I  am  truly  Henry  Coggin  and  nobody  else,”  protested 
Harry,  thoroughly  alarmed,  “It  is  a pure  coincidence  that 
the  syllables  of  my  name  also  make  ‘ incog. ’ When  I told  Sir 
Richard  Brasher  and  his  friend  that  I am  a marine-store- 
dealer’s  son,  it  was  the  simple  truth  and  nothing  can  alter  it.” 

“Look  here,  hang  it  all,”  said  Mr.  Huntly-Martin,  “of 
course  there ’s  some  catch  in  it,  a catch  I ’m  too  stupid  to  guess 
at.  But,  confound  it,  I can’t  go  back  to  my  chief  and  say  I ’ve 
failed.  Besides,  Germany  isn’t  England.  You  can’t  play 
pranks  with  passports  and  stick  down  a false  name  in  the 
hotel  registers.  The  Bavarian  police  won’t  have  it.  Remem- 
ber, things  are  very  ticklish  here.  Unless  I ’m  badly  misin- 
formed, there  ’ll  be  trouble  soon  between  Prussia  and  Bavaria 
— probably  a war  before  the  year’s  out.  The  fat  old  Johnnies 
who  govern  this  damned  country  dare  n’t  risk  sheltering  mys- 
terious strangers.  But  listen,  I ’ll  tell  you  in  confidence, 
although  I ought  n’t  to  do  it,  why  I ’m  here.  We  find  you  ’re 
a musician.  The  Lord’s  Anointed,  the  new  King  Ludwig,  has 
taken  a fancy  to  you.  He ’s  as  mad  as  a hatter.  The  King 
met  you,  didn’t  he,  at  Richard  Wagner’s  house?  Wagner’s 
as  mad  as  His  Majesty,  or  worse.  The  King  means  to  take 
you  up  and  make  no  end  of  a fuss  over  you : so  the  Highover- 


294 


THE  HARE 


all  Chamberlain  wants  to  know  if  you  ’re  respectable.  He 
does  n’t  mean  moral.  Nothing  to  do  with  that  Amsterdam  af- 
fair. Are  yon  what  corresponds  with  a 4 von,’  or  not?  For 
the  last  time,  out  with  it.” 

“ There’s  nothing  to  out  with,”  answered  Coggin  solemnly. 
“I  am  truly  Henry  Coggin  and  truly  a rag-and-bone  man’s 
son.  ’ ’ 

“Tut,”  snapped  the  diplomat  impatiently.  “You  are  a 
classical  scholar,  a composer,  a critic  of  the  arts,  a hunter  of 
the  best  meats  and  the  choicest  wines,  and  you  tell  me  you  are 
a rag-and-bone  man’s  son.  What’s  Pa  doing  all  this  time? 
Just  swopping  old  pokers  for  new  rabbit-skins  and  sending  you 
tin,  I suppose?  No,  Mr.  Coggin.  Damned  if  I ’m  not  begin- 
ning to  think  you  ’re  a Prussian  spy.  Would  you  swear  on 
your  maiden  aunt’s  Bible  that  your  tale  is  true?” 

“On  my  sacred  word  of  honor,  I swear  it  now,”  Harry  an- 
swered. He  spoke  eagerly  and  emphatically.  And  yet,  when 
a silence  ensued,  he  felt  humiliated  and  unhappy.  A year 
before,  on  the  green  back  af  the  soft  Moselle,  he  had  made 
this  self-same  confession  to  Sir  Richard  Brasher  almost 
boastfully.  During  the  long  and  wonderful  months  of  his 
wander-year  he  had  not  become  one  whit  less  simple  and  there 
was  still  no  trace  in  him  of  the  upstart.  All  the  same  he 
began  to  wish  fiercely  that  the  dead  past  might  be  left  to 
molder  into  decent  dust  without  these  frequent  and  boisterous 
exhumations.  As  for  Mr.  Huntly-Martin ’s  tale  about  King 
Ludwig,  Harry’s  mind  simply  did  not  receive  it  and  it  passed 
him  by. 

After  gulping  down  the  last  glass  of  Klostemeuberger  in- 
attentively and  irritably,  the  attache  began  to  speak  again. 
His  tone,  though  rougher  and  distinctly  condescending,  was 
not  unkind.  He  said: 

“I  must  believe  you.  If  your  father  were  here,  I should 
congratulate  him  on  the  way  he  has  had  you  educated.  Not 


THE  WANDERER 


295 


much  Eton  and  Christ  Church  about  you,  but  you  ’re  a damned 
sight  more  interesting.  I admit  I thought  the  same  as  Brasher 
— that  you  were  a vagabond  young  peer,  disgusted  with  the 
convenances  of  stick-in-the-mud  society  and  doing  just  what 
you  jolly  well  pleased,  like  some  of  the  sprigs  of  nobility  in 
Disraeli’s  novels.  By  the  way,  excuse  me  saying  so,  but 
Disraeli’s  novels,  now  I think  of  it,  are  like  a splendid  marine- 
store.  Anyhow,  I agreed  with  Brasher.  And  now  it  turns 
out  that  we  were  wrong.  I must  tell  my  chief,  and  my  chief 
must  tell  the  chamberlain  and  the  chamberlain  will  tell  the 
King.  Now,  Mr.  Coggin,  wake  up  and  pay  attention.  As 
soon  as  His  Majesty  learns  that  you  are  a genius  of  humble 
birth  he  will  rush  to  take  you  under  his  patronage  and  per- 
haps you  ’ll  never  break  loose.  If  you  ’re  caught,  it  will  be 
a living  death.  ’ ’ 

He  paused.  When  Coggin  failed  to  speak,  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin  continued:  “Let  me  be  old-fashioned.  Let  me  quote 
Shakespeare.  My  estimate  of  your  future,  Mr.  Coggin,  is  like 
I-f orget-his-name ’s  estimate  of  Bottom  the  Weaver’s:  ‘I  don’t 
see  how  you  can  escape  sixpence  a day  for  life  from  the  Duke.  ’ 
Y’  know  there ’s  something  in  Shakespeare  for  everything. 
The  Kings  of  Bavaria  were  no  more  than  Dukes  in  Shake- 
speare’s time,  so  he  hit  your  case  exactly.  I see  you  are 
alarmed.  So  I should  be  myself,  in  your  place.  Now,  tell  me. 
Can  you  go  back  to  England?  Have  you  any  business  that 
keeps  you  in  Bavaria?” 

“No,”  answered  Coggin  quickly.  “None  at  all.  As  for 
England,  I v . . I am  expected  back  in  September.  ’ 9 

“Well,  clear  out  of  Bavaria.  That ’s  my  advice.  Con- 
found it,  you  don’t  want  to  be  turned  into  a damned  Ger- 
man, now  do  you?” 

Although  Mr.  Huntly-Martin ’s  manner  had  become  conde- 
scending from  the  moment  when  Harry  solemnly  affirmed  his 
lowly  origin,  there  was  at  the  same  time  such  a glow  of  good- 


296 


THE  HARE 


will  in  liis  cheerful  face  that  Harry  longed  to  pour  out  his 
life-story  and  to  seek  the  shrewd  young  man’s  opinion  on  the 
scheme  of  Edward  Redding.  4 ‘To  be  turned  into  a damned 
German — ” was  not  this  the  very  business  on  which  he  had 
come  to  Germany?  For  a moment  he  was  dazzled  by  the 
prospect  of  escaping  not  only  from  the  terrifying  benevolence 
of  King  Ludwig  but  also  from  the  whole  complication  into 
which  Edward  Redding  was  driving  him.  He  tried  to  speak : 
but  the  old  invincible  reticence  choked  his  utterance  save  some 
jumbled  thanks.  > 

“That  ’s  all  right,”  said  Mr.  Huntly-Martin  gratefully. 
“Now  my  old  man  will  say  I ’m  a good  child.  Fact  is  that  he 
was  worried.  If  you ’d  squatted  down  in  Munich  as  one  of 
this  Wagner  clique  it  might  have  meant  a lot  of  bother  for 
us.  The  Bavarians  can’t  see  a foreigner  near  the  King,  even 
if  he ’s  only  an  Italian  tenor  or  a French  cook,  without  think- 
ing that  His  Majesty’s  foreign  policy  is  being  tampered  with. 
There ’s  a bad  time  coming.  I loathe  the  Prussians,  but  the 
brutes  have  got  a real  army  and,  by  Jove,  they  ’ll  give  the 
Bavarians  and  the  Austrians  a thrashing  when  it  suits  them. 
So  skedaddle,  my  young  friend,  and  keep  out  of  a mess.  But 
I must  flit.  Capital  dinner,  stunning  wine.  A thousand 
thanks.  Good-night  and  good  luck.” 

Before  he  turned  into  bed,  Harry  wrote  and  posted  the  fol- 
lowing letter : 

Dear  Mr.  Edward. 

1 hope  you  received  the  Berlin  stove . As  you  said  it  was 
for  the  house  of  a particular  friend , I chose  a very  good  one 
and  packed  it  myself . The  Magyar  bunda  was  a new  one,  so 
you  need  not  fear  any  contagion . I hope  none  of  the  rever- 
sible wine-glasses  were  broken.  The  silver  platter  from 
Wurzburg  with  the  name  Arbuthnot  on  it  must  have  belonged 


THE  WANDERER  297 

to  a Scots  monk.  It  seems  many  of  them  came  to  the  Main  and 
the  Dannie. 

Mr.  Edw’ard,  1 have  done  my  best  to  obey  your  wishes  and 
to  refrain  from  thinking  much  about  the  future.  My  four- 
teen months  in  Germany  have  restored  my  health  and  broad- 
ened my  mind.  I can  never  thank  you  enough.  They  say  1 
speak  and  write  German  well . The  Dictionary  of  uncommon 
phrases  fills  two  thick  quarto  MS.  volumes  already.  I do  not 
play  the  organ  so  well  as  before , but  composition  is  much  easier 
to  me.  ^ 

Mr.  Edward , if  you  do  not  object  I will  return  to  England 
at  once  instead  of  waiting  till  September.  It  is  time  to  begin 
working.  To-morrow  I go  to  Vienna  where  my  address  will 
be  the  Zwei  Lowen  in  the  Seilergasse.  I shall  wait  there  for 
your  esteemed  reply. 

I am  coming  to  reconcile  myself  with  the  idea  of  dropping 
my  name  of  Coggin,  for  good  reasons.  But  although  I ad- 
mire many  things  in  the  life  over  here , I should  find  it  very 
hard  to  be  a German. 

Hoping  that  you  are  well ; also  your  honored  parents, 

I am, 

Your  respectful,  obedient 

Henry  Coggin. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


SIX  days,  according  to  Harry's  calculations,  would  be 
the  shortest  time  in  which  he  could  receive  Edward 
Redding’s  reply : so,  on  reaching  Vienna,  he  shut  up  his 
mind  against  hopes  and  fears  and  devoted  himself  to  the 
sights  of  the  city.  Vienna  was  the  most  considerable  of  all 
the  cities  he  had  visited  and  he  expected  much. 

He  was  disappointed.  The  churches  and  museums  and 
palaces  and  avenues  accorded  with  the  descriptions  in  the 
guide-books;  but  overpowering  heat  and  some  strokes  of  bad 
luck  spoilt  his  first  two  days.  He  deemed  it  his  duty  to 
begin  by  a pilgrimage  to  the  graves  of  the  four  immortal 
musicians  who  had  been  buried  in  Vienna — Gluck  and  Mozart, 
Beethoven  and  Schubert.  The  rumored  identification  of 
Mozart’s  resting-place  turned  out  to  be  untrue,  and  Coggin 
learned  that  all  hope  of  tracing  the  pauper  grave  in  the  St. 
Marx  burial-ground  had  been  abandoned.  In  the  Wahring 
cemetery  a still  more  depressing  experience  awaited  him.  The 
remains  of  Schubert  and  Beethoven,  after  lying  for  two  gener- 
ations side  by  side,  had  been  dug  up  a little  while  before  Cog- 
gin’s  visit,  on  a pretext  of  restoring  the  tombs,  by  a musical 
society : and  when  Harry  would  fain  have  bowed  his  head  in 
homage  and  in  prayer  he  was  suddenly  buzzed  at  and  stung 
by  a waspish  cicerone  who  insisted  on  presenting  him  to  the 
chief  body-snatcher.  This  greasy  ghoul  gave  lush  details  of 
the  unburials.  The  skulls  and  thighbones  of  both  the  com- 
posers had  been  carefully  measured  and  the  ghoul  knew  the 
figures  to  a millimeter.  He  was  taking  breath  for  a further 
bout  of  grossness  when  the  victim  abruptly  turned  away 

298 


THE  WANDERER 


299 


without  giving  grave-digger  or  guide  a single  kreuzer.  It  was 
Harry’s  custom  to  bestow  trinkgeld  rather  liberally:  but  he 
would  have  felt  like  a man  caught  red-handed  in  sacrilege  if 
he  had  helped  to  gorge  this  pair  of  leeches. 

The  opera-house  was  closed.  As  for  the  cafes  and  beer- 
gardens  they  confirmed  all  Harry  had  heard  about  Viennese 
gaiety  and  for  that  very  reason  their  staccato  music  and 
laughter  struck  cold  sparks  from  the  heart  of  a lonely  traveler. 
The  main  stream  of  the  Danube  flowed  miles  away  and  he 
could  not  feel  sure  that  he  would  be  allowed  to  swim  in  it 
even  if  he  gained  its  banks.  While  the  galleries  delighted 
his  eyes  they  also  choked  his  lungs.  Only  the  churches  re- 
mained. He  was  cheered  by  the  high-soaring  nave  and  spire 
of  St.  Stephen’s  cathedral;  but  an  hour  later,  under  the 
church  in  the  Neumarkt,  a Capuchin  friar  holding  a torch 
brought  the  sight-seer  back  to  selemnity  by  leading  him  past 
a hundred  metal  coffins,  the  funeral  caskets  of  the  imperial 
family.  Coggin  gazed  calmly  enough  on  the  remains  of  Haps- 
burg  emperors  and  empresses,  archdukes  and  archduchesses 
and  crown-princes ; because  a year  of  diligent  sight-seeing  had 
familiarized  him  with  the  tombs  of  the  great.  Even  the  cop- 
per coffin  of  the  Duke  of  Reichstadt,  the  son  of  Napoleon  the 
Great  by  Marie  Louise,  gave  him  no  sharp  thrill.  At  length, 
however,  the  Capuchin  pointed  out  a rather  plain  box  in  a 
corner  and  explained  that,  unlike  the  ninety-nine  other  boxes, 
it  held  the  bones  of  a person  who  was  not  of  royal  blood.  It 
was  the  coffin,  he  said,  of  a mere  countess,  who  had  been  the 
governess  of  Maria  Teresa.  This  lowly  creature  lay  amidst  the 
imperial  dead  through  the  benevolent  condescension  of  Maria 
Teresa  herself.  While  the  Capuchin  was  expanding  the  anec- 
dote, a shiver  suddenly  ran  up  and  down  Harry’s  marrow. 
He  remembered  Huntly -Martin’s  lightly-spoken  warning  that 
the  patronage  of  King  Ludwig  would  be  a living  death. 

Turning  the  pages  of  a time-table  in  a cafe,  Harry  found 


300 


THE  HARE 


that  a steamer  would  leave  Vienna  for  Pest  early  the  next 
morning.  He  could  pass  nearly  two  days  voyaging  on  the 
Danube,  spend  two  days  in  the  Hungarian  capital  and  return 
to  the  Two  Lions  in  time  for  Edward  Redding’s  letter. 
"Within  twenty-four  hours  of  his  first  glance  at  the  time-table 
the  traveler  sat  comfortably  supping  in  a riverside  hostelry  at 
Pest  which  had  been  recommended  by  his  Vienna  host.  On 
his  plate  smoked  a savory  gulyas,  in  his  glass  glowered  a full 
draught  of  the  local  wine  called  Turk ’s  Blood,  and  across  the 
noble  Danube  towered  the  rock  of  Bu(las  its  ruinous  palace  and 
castle  embossing  the  crags  richly  in  the  evening  light. 

After  supper,  as  Coggin  was  standing  puzzled  before  a 
lordly  building  not  mentioned  in  his  guide-book,  an  elderly 
gentleman  addressed  him  very  politely  in  English  and  ex- 
plained that  this  was  the  Academy,  only  just  completed.  He 
added  that  Harry  had  arrived  in  Pest  at  a happy  moment  for 
artists.  Only  that  very  morning,  the  Hungarian  Government 
had  succeeded  in  buying  for  their  spick-and-span  new  Acad- 
emy a most  famous  collection  of  works  of  art — the  Esterhazy 
collection.  The  gentleman  appeared  to  be  even  more  pleased 
that  these  pictures  and  statues  were  to  be  brought  out  of 
Vienna  than  that. they  were  to  be  brought  into  Pest.  Indeed 
it  soon  became  apparent  that  he  detested  Hungary’s  union 
with  Austria.  Having  persuaded  the  young  Englishman  to 
sit  down  with  him  in  a garden-restaurant,  where  he  ordered  a 
bottle  of  red  wine  with  the  engaging  name  of  Szanorodnyi, 
the  Magyar  said : 

“Look  at  that  suspension  bridge.  It  was  made  in  England! 
— designed  by  the  Englishman  who  built  your  Hammersmith 
Bridge.  I was  connected  with  the  enterprise.  That  is  why 
I speak  English. 

“Never  shall  I forget  the  opening  of  that  bridge.  A great 
bridge  is  usually  opened  by  a royal  personage.  There  are  ban- 
ners, bands  of  music,  speeches,  fireworks.  The  opening  of  our 


THE  WANDERER 


301 


bridge  was  different:  though  I admit  there  were  fireworks. 

“Some  people  had  been  saying  that  the  bridge  would  fall 
if  many  carts  and  people  were  allowed  upon  it  at  the  same 
moment.  I will  tell  you  what  happened.  Nearly  eighteen 
years  ago  I was  a captain  in  Kossuth’s  army.  The  Austrians 
were  too  much  for  us  and  we  had  to  flee,  with  the  enemy  on 
our  heels.  It  was  the  new  bridge  or  nothing.  We  poured 
across.  So  did  the  enemy.  We  hadn’t  time  to  blow  it  up. 
On  those  two  short  January  days  I believe  that  a hundred 
thousand  men,  with  at  least  two  thousand  wagons  and  guns, 
crossed  the  Danube  by  that  bridge.  It  did  n’t  fall.  And  four 
months  later,  when  the  tables  were  turned,  I stood  near  this 
very  spot  on  the  river  bank — I had  been  sent  home  wounded 
a month  before — and  I watched  the  Austrians  riding  hell-for- 
leather  in  full  retreat  before  our  arms.” 

Although  Harry  Coggin  liked  the  Austrians  he  had  met, 
and  although  he  had  never  before  had  warm  feelings  towards 
Hungarians,  his  blood  raced  at  what  he  heard.  Mr.  Edward 
Redding  laughed  at  patriotism  and  nationality.  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin  spoke  of  them  with  a<  bored  and  aloof  manner.  Here, 
however,  was  a man  to  whom  race  and  racial  freedom  were  a 
religion,  a master-passion,  a reason  for  being  alive. 

Abruptly  raising  his  glass,  the  Hungarian  said:  “I  drink 
to  your  free  country.  ’ ’ 

By  the  light  of  a glow-lamp  hung  among  the  vines  Harry 
gazed  at  the  fine  face  of  his  new  friend  and  knew  that  he  was 
in  the  presence  of  one  nobly  bred  and  nobly  bom.  Yet  some- 
how he  did  not  feel  inferior.  For  once,  his  humility  left  him 
and  in  its  place  came  a serene  pride  in  his  own  race.  He 
bowed,  as  if  to  the  manner  born ; and  when  the  other  set  down 
his  glass  he  said,  with  graceful  ease : 

“And  I drink  to  your  country’s  freedom.” 

So  completely  did  Harry’s  diffidence  forsake  him  that  he  not 
only  asked  for  his  host’s  opinions  on  several  international 


302 


THE  HARE 


topics  blit  even  gave  his  own.  At  length  some  brighter  gas- 
lamps  were  turned  up  and  immediately  a strange  thing  hap- 
pened. In  the  stronger  light  Harry’s  elderly  companion  was 
recognized  by  some  young  men,  sitting  at  a table  a few  yards 
away.  Like  one  man  they  rose  to  their  feet  and  remained 
standing  until  Harry’s  host  waved  them  back  into  their  seats. 
Their  action  seemed  more  oriental  than  Prussian:  more  like 
old-world  homage  to  a feudal  lord  than  mere  military  disci- 
pline. Perceiving  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a considerable 
personage,  Harry  once  more  again  became  a circumspect  lis- 
tener and  spoke  no  more. 

“You  asked  just  now  about  our  union  with  Austria,”  said 
the  Hungarian.  ‘ 4 1 believe  the  union  will  last  out  the  lifetime 
of  our  present  King-Emperor  and  no  longer.  I say  King- 
Emperor  ; not  Emperor-King.  Remember,  Hungary  is  a king- 
dom, Austria  a mere  dukedom.  Look  across  the  , Danube,  to 
Buda.  There,  in  the  palace  on  the  rock,  Hungary  keeps  her 
sacred  regalia:  St.  Stephen’s  mantle  and  sword  and  sceptei 
and  the  holy  crown.  You  may  laugh  at  the  legend  that  angels 
were  the  goldsmiths  who  wrought  King  Stephen’s  crown:  but 
for  us  it  is  true.  Two  angels  shaped  it  beyond  dispute:  the 
angel  of  faith  and  the  angel  of  fatherland,  the  angel  of  religion 
and  the  angel  of  nationality.” 

Lights  began  to  twinkle  in  some  smaller  windows  of  the 
palace.  The  Danube’s  hurrying  flood  reflected  them  tremu- 
lously. Hundreds  of  vine-leaves  over  Harry’s  head  rustled 
in  the  river  breeze.  As  the  Hungarian  spoke  of  the  saint- 
king’s  diadem  his  voice  quivered.  At  that  moment  all  the 
harp-strings  of  the  night  seemed  taut  and  vibrant.  Harry 
bent  to  listen.  The  speaker  continued: 

“Up  to  twelve  years  ago,  St.  Stephen’s  crown  was  hidden  in 
the  ground,  at  Orsova,  far  down  the  Danube.  You  young 
Englishmen  must  not  be  too  sharply  blamed  for  your  light- 


THE  WANDERER  303 

ness.  Only  your  old  men  remember  any  great  events.  But 
England’s  turn  will  come  again. 

“My  young  friend,  your  remarks  and  enquiries  convince 
me  that  you  are  serious,  unlike  most  of  your  traveling  com- 
patriots. Permit  me  then  to  speak  my  mind.  Your  race  is 
losing  the  true  sense  of  nationality.  You  admire  the  sense  of 
nationality  everywhere  except  at  home.  When  a small  and 
oppressed  nation  is  struggling  for  freedom,  Englishmen  are 
sure  to  be  found  fighting  against  the  tyrant,  and  your  govern- 
ment is  the  first  to  champion  freedom’s  cause.  But  it  seems 
to  be  your  idea  that  you  yourselves  are  above  nationality. 
Your  Scotch,  your  Irish,  your  Welsh  are  intensely  proud  of 
Scotland,  Ireland,  Wales:  but  Englishmen  are  losing  the 
habit  of  pride  in  their  own  England.  At  first  I thought  it 
was  the  admirable  reticence  of  your  race : but  I spend  three 
months  of  every  year  in  England  and  I observe  the  growth  of 
a false  liberalism,  an  easy-going,  half-cynical  cosmopolitan- 
ism which  may  be  the  death  of  your  greatness.  You  help 
Greece,  help  Poland,  help  Italy:  but  I repeat  that  you  only 
revere  nationality  at  a distance.  You  are  like  the  eclectic  who 
built  a temple  and  filled  it  with  the  sacred  images  and  emblems 
of  all  religions,  but  had  no  religion  of  his  own.  I ask  you. 
When  the  ordeal  by  fire  is  once  more  appointed  for  your 
nation,  which  attitude  will  best  serve  you — the  attitude  of  ar- 
rogant supra-nationality  or  the  attitude  of  soldierly  patriotism, 
hand  on  the  sword-hilt  and  eye  on  the  advancing  banner?” 

He  waited  so  long,  that  Harry  felt  obliged  to  attempt  an 
answer.  The  best  he  could  say  was:  “We  are  a peaceful 
nation.  If  there  is  a great  war,  it  will  not  be  of  England’s 
making  or  seeking.” 

The  Magyar  suddenly  lost  his  temper.  “Quite  so,”  he  ex- 
claimed warmly.  “You  are  sportsmen  in  your  games,  in  your 
social  intercourse,  but  not  in  the  grand  Weltspiel!  You  are 


304 


THE  HARE 


like  a boy  who,  when  he  has  won  all  the  biggest  marbles  from 
his  playmates,  says  ‘Now,  I don’t  intend  to  play  marbles 
again.’  Partly  through  the  foresight  and  valor  of  your  ad- 
venturous race  but  largely  through  luck  and  the  follies  and 
misfortunes  of  others,  you  have  got  more  than  your  share. 
My  young  friend,  whether  she  likes  it  or  not,  Britannia  some 
day  will  have  to  recommence  that  game  of  marbles.” 

“We  have  beaten  the  French  before,”  said  Harry  proudly. 

“France  is  a danger,  I admit,”  was  the  swift  answer,  “but 
she  is  most  dangerous  to  herself.  She  may  make  a bid  for 
glory.  If  so,  she  will  reap  a terrible  punishment.  There  is 
a sterner  enemy  than  France.” 

“You  cannot  mean  Austria,”  said  Harry.  “Is  it  Russia? 
Or  is  it  Prussia?” 

“Austria  will  fight  Prussia  and  will  be  defeated,”  said  the 
Hungarian  in  low,  quick  tones.  ‘ ‘ Then,  sooner  or  later,  there 
will  be  a united  Germany,  including  Austria,  with  Prussia 
at  the  head.  I doubt  if  the  Austrian  Empire  has  ten  years  to 
live.  You  ask  what  will  be  the  position  of  Hungary,  where 
will  be  the  hopes  of  Italy,  of  Serbia,  of  Poland?  I do  not 
know.  But  mark  my  words.  And,  before  I utter  them,  please 
understand  that  I am  not  accustomed  to  discuss  politics  even 
with  my  intimate  friends,  much  less  with  chance  foreigners. 
Some  inward  force  which  I cannot  explain  compels  me  to  speak 
to  you  to-night,  although  cool  judgment  reminds  me  that  it  is 
an  indiscretion.  Before  you  are  my  age,  your  country  may 
have  to  fight  Prussia  and  her  tributary  states.  It  will  not  be 
a war  that  you  can  end  with  one  blow  from  Britannia’s 
trident.  It  will  not  be  a mere  resistence  to  a sudden 
French-like  craving  for  la  gloire.  It  will  be  Rome  against 
Carthage.  If  you  lose,  you  will  be  sponged  off  the  map. 
Mere  victory  will  not  satisfy  Prussia.  She  will  Prussianize 
the  whole  world.  A big  navy  of  paid  sailors  and  a little 
army  of  paid  soldiers  cannot  suffice.  I love  Hungary  but 


THE  WANDERER 


305 


I love  mankind  still  more:  and  it  is  for  the  good  of  man- 
kind that  England  should  still  be  great.  I hate  Austria 
and  I believe  that  Prussia  is  the  scourge  of  God,  ap- 
pointed for  Austria’s  tyrannical  shoulders:  but  where  Austria 
has  chastised  with  whips  Prussia  will  chastise  with  scorpions. 
May  God  save  your  free  land.” 

Without  suggesting  another  meeting  the  Magyar  rose  and 
wished  Harry  good-night.  As  he  stood  up,  the  occupants 
of  several  other  tables  did  the  same  and  remained  standing 
until  the*  great  man  was  out  of  sight. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  inn  the  landlord  awaited  his  Eng- 
lish guest  with  a telegram.  It  was  from  London  and  it  had 
been  transmitted  to  Pest  from  Vienna  by  those  attentive  beasts 
the  Two  Lions.  What  Harry  read  was  this: 

Meet  me  September  second  London  not  before . — Writing  to- 
day Edward  Redding. 

Although  the  journey  down-stream  had  been  easily  accom- 
plished in  the  long  interval  between  his  early  breakfast  in 
Vienna  and  his  not  very  late  supper  in  Pest,  Harry  knew  that 
the  steam-packet  would  require  a day  and  a half  to  beat  its 
way  back,  against  the  strong  current.  A boat  was  appointed 
to  leave  the  next  morning  at  seven  and  there  would  not  be  an- 
other for  forty-eight  hours.  He  paid  his  bill  of  two  florins 
overnight.  On  the  morrow,  after  hearing  Mass  at  six  in  a 
rather  mean  church,  he  was  aboard  with  nearly  half  an  hour 
to  spare. 

From  a wild  sky,  the  sun  brandished  scimitars  of  light  above 
the  Danube,  till  the  flashing  radiance  burnt  a beholder’s  eyes. 
But  when  the  steamer  had  pushed  past  the  old  Turkish  fort, 
and  the  unvisited  Academy  of  Pest  was  hidden  from  Harry’s 
regretful  gaze,  the  sunshine  was  abruptly  quenched  as  if  a 


306 


THE  HARE 


flood  of  gas-light  had  been  turned  off  at  the  main.  The 
cordage  began  to  moan,  the  clear  swift  Danube  was  convulsed 
as  if  with  the  writhings  of  a million  -green  water-snakes-  and 
the  planks  of  the  deck  shuddered. 

Instantly  all  the  passengers  save  one,  having  picked  up 
their  wraps  and  field-glasses  and  copies  of  the  Pester  Lloyd , 
scurried  into  the  shelter  of  the  saloons.  Harry  alone  remained 
to  face  the  fast-brewing  storm.  Hailing  the  purser  he  suc- 
ceeded in  borrowing  four  of  the  native  sheepskins  with  their 
wool  turned  inwards  and  the  leather  adorned  in  gay  colors. 
With  these  and  with  some  stout  thongs  of  the  same  material 
he  made  himself  a suit  of  armor  against  the  worst  the  tempest 
could  do. 

The  wind  shifted  and  the  storm  tarried.  With  a frolic 
breeze  slapping  his  face,  Harry  gave  himself  up  to  guesses  at 
the  meaning  of  Edward  Redding’s  telegram.  Why  was  a re- 
turn to  London  before  September  forbidden  ? The  first  theory 
was  merely  that  Mr.  Edward  had  holiday  plans  of  his  own 
which  could  not  be  deranged.  Yet,  somehow,  Harry’s  in- 
stinct rejected  this  answer.  He  felt  persuaded  that  his  young 
patron  was  already  intent  upon  some  vast  surprise  which 
should  be  worthy  to  compare  even  with  his  astounding  feats  at 
Bulford-on-Deme.  Harry  winced  as  this  certainty  came  to 
full  stature.  He  felt  like  the  poor  performing  dog  who  shiv- 
ers in  the  wings  while  his  too  clever  master  struts  the  stage  ar- 
ranging the  long  line  of  step-ladders  and  tissue-paper-hoops 
and  trapezes  through  which  the  hapless  brute  must  burst  and 
scramble  and  leap  and  tumble  when  the  crack  of  the  whip  and 
the  blare  of  the  band  give  the  signal. 

Coggin’s  next  impulse  was  to  rebel  and  to  assert  once  for 
all  his  freedom.  Since  the  morning  of  his  talk  with  Herr 
Wagner  and  King  Ludwig  he  had  become  gradually  less  dis- 
trustful of  his  own  powers;  and  his  talks  with  Mr.  Huntly- 
Martin  -and  with  chance  acquaintances  of  travel  had  strength- 


THE  WANDERER 


307 


ened  this  new  self-confidence.  Not  that  contact  with  the  great 
had  spoilt  him.  Conceit  and  Harry  Coggin  were  still  wholly 
strangers  to  one  another  and  he  remained  as  truly  modest  as 
ever.  All  the  same  he  had  found  his  feet;  and  there  was 
something  stuffy  and  silly  in  the  thought  of  being  hugged  and 
lugged  about  like  a baby-in-arms,  even  by  Edward  Redding. 
Yes.  He  would  declare  his  independence.  He  would  meet 
telegram  with  telegram  and  would  go  back  to  England  at  once. 

A flash  of  lightning  gashed  the  sky.  The  scowling  murk, 
like  a crouching  beast  sore  smitten,  roared  out  in  rage  and 
pain.  Flash  followed  roar  and  roar  followed  flash  with  grow- 
ing violence.  Then  came  the  rain,  whipping  Harry  full  in 
the  face,  like  gravel  swished  from  a catapult.  The  Danube’s 
gnomes  and  pixies  and  water-horses  gurgled  up  from  the 
depths  to  hail  the  storm  with  wild  chaunts  and  neighings. 

In  Harry’s  heart,  as  well  as  in  the  Danube’s  bed,  an  eager 
tide  swelled  high  and  brimmed  over.  The  ship’s  prow  was 
pointing  not  only  to  Vienna  but  to  England.  He  had  turned 
his  back  upon  the  East  and  was  hastening  home.  Further- 
more, he  exulted  in  the  roughness  and  wildness  of  the  coarse 
sheepskins  and  the  blinding  storm.  After  fourteen  months  of 
being  waited  upon  in  his  idleness  it  was  pure  joy  to  feel  that 
he  was  returning  to  toil  and  hardship.  He  knew  that  the 
steamer  would  halt  an  hour  at  Gran,  the  Canterbury  of  Hun- 
gary. There  would  be  time  not  only  to  peep  at  the  tiny  old 
town  and  at  the  huge  new  cathedral  but  to  hand  in  a tele- 
gram as  well.  He  set  himself  to  devise  a firm  but  respectful 
message  to  Mr.  Edward  Redding. 

After  ten  different  sentences  had  been  composed  and  re- 
jected Coggin ’s  fit  of  defiance  came  to  an  abrupt  end.  After 
all,  what  could  be  gained  by  bustling  back  four  weeks  earlier? 
On  landing  in  England  what  would  he  do,  where  would  he  go  ? 
He  suddenly  understood  his  dependence  upon  Mr.  Edward. 
Without  Mr.  Edward,  he  would  have  been  still  moiling  in 


308 


THE  HARE 


Bulford,  fighting  a losing  battle  against  the  thin-lipped  Ram- 
burys.  It  was  Mr.  Edward  who  had  won  for  him  victory  and 
honor,  as  well  as  a settled  income  for  life.  Surely  it  would  be 
the  most  churlish  ingratitude  if  he  withdrew  his  confidence 
from  this  good  friend  and  disdained  all  further  tutelage. 

The  rain  ceased  and  the  growling  thunder-brute  skulked  off 
muttering  behind  the  hills.  Under  a still  frowning  sky, 
Harry  penitently  began  an  examination  of  conscience  in  regard 
to  his  young  benefactor.  Had  his  monthly  letter  to  Mr.  Ed- 
ward been  duly  long  and  grateful?  And  had  he,  so  far  as 
circumstances  permitted,  obeyed  the  written  advice  which  had 
been  so  thoughtfully  put  into  his  hand  when  he  boarded  The 
Queen  of  the  North  Sea  at  Hull?  To  these  questions,  after 
swiftly  conning  over  his  mental  records  of  the  long  trip,  Harry 
could  honestly  answer  yea.  He  had  been  as  scrupulous  in  get- 
ting rid  of  his  three  hundred  pounds  as  he  would  have  been 
in  saving  a hundred  of  it  if  Redding  had  told  him  to  do  so.  He 
had  acquired  a knowledge  of  colloquial  German  which,  by  rea- 
son of  his  wide  wandering,  was  greater  than  any  single  Han- 
overian or  Bavarian,  Prussian  or  Wurtemberger,  Saxon  or 
Austrian  could  boast.  He  had  soaked  himself  in  symphony 
and  opera.  He  had  gazed  upon  Germany’s  chief  works  of 
art  and  her  beauties  of  nature.  He  had  eaten  and  drunken 
amply  and  curiously ; and,  most  important  and  difficult  of  all, 
he  had  stubbornly  held  himself  back  from  such  decisions  and 
changes  as  could  conflict  with  the  plans  which  Edward  Red- 
ding might  be  excogitating  for  his  future.  From  the  Freiherr, 
from  the  Benedietine,  from  Herr  Wagner  and  even  from  King 
Ludwig  he  had  run  away  rather  than  risk  the  smallest  inability 
to  present  himself  in  due  time  to  Mr.  Edward,  for  shaping  as 
the  clay  is  shaped  by  the  potter.  Even  in  the  sheerly  personal 
matter  of  religion  he  was  returning  to  England  with  his  status 
unchanged. 

Pursuing  this  long  self -scrutiny  to  the  end,  Henry  Coggin 


THE  WANDERER 


309 


fondly  believed  that  he  had  also  fulfilled  Mr.  Edward’s  com- 
mands to  be  young  and  blithe  and  idle.  Amidst  the  wonder- 
ful contrasts  between  his  gray  years  in  Bulford  and  his  multi- 
colored months  in  Germany  he  had  been  so  brimmingly  happy 
that  he  was  not  aware  of  his  own  grown-up  seriousness.  As 
for  idleness,  he  honestly  felt  that  it  had  been  unbroken  since 
his  hour  of  glory  in  Bulford  Town  Hall.  The  truth  was  that 
he  had  been  busy  for  many  hours  every  day.  His  notes  on 
German  literature,  on  harmony  and  polyphony  and  orchestra- 
tion, oh  painting  and  architecture  and  sculpture,  would  not 
have  shamed  a Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Yet  his  hands  had  often 
been  as  busy  as  his  brain.  He  carried  a few  light  tools  wher- 
ever he  went ; and  often,  on  wet  days,  in  village  inns,  he  had 
asked  leave  to  mend  the  broken  castor  of  a chair  or  the  fit- 
tings of  a bedroom  looking-glass  or  a worn-out  Venetian  blind 
or  anything  else  that  hurt  his  tidy  eye.  In  scores  of  different 
bedrooms,  even  in  some  where  he  had  stayed  for  one  night 
only,  Harry  oiled  the  stiff  locks  of  cupboards,  straightened  lop- 
sided cornices,  or  pared  the  inequal  legs  of  cane-bottomed 
chairs.  But  he  had  done  these  things  in  the  spirit  of  a man 
receiving  rather  than  bestowing  favors,  grateful  for  the  chance 
of  keeping  his  hand  in ; and  not  one  of  them  recurred  to  his 
mind  as  he  sat  on  the  steamer  deck  marveling  at  the  success  of 
his  long-drawn  exercise  in  laziness  and  rejoicing  that  he  would 
so  soon  be  allowed  once  more  to  light  fires,  peel  potatoes,  wash 
dishes,  break  coals,  carry  pails  of  water. 

A dismal  fear  tripped  him  up.  What  if  Mr.  Edward  should 
condemn  him  to  a polite  existence  among  prim  servants,  who 
would  regard  his  cooking  and  cabinet-making  as  the  depths 
of  indecorum?  This  dark  prospect  forced  him  to  resume  his 
guessing.  But  it  was  in  vain.  He  lacked  nearly  all  the  data. 
Whether  Edward  Redding  would  or  would  not  persist  in  pre- 
senting Henry  Coggin  as  “the  Hare”;  whether  England  or 
America  was  to  be  the  scene  of  action;  whether  music  did  or 


310 


THE  HARE 


did  not  furnish  the  pivot  of  the  plan — to  these  questions  he 
could  give  no  replies.  So  he  began  to  settle  what  he  would  do 
if,  after  all,  Mr.  Edward  should  slip  the  leash  and  force  him 
to  carve  out  his  own  career. 

Harry’s  uncomplicated  mind  soon  furnished  a clear  answer. 
Music  would,  in  any  event,  be  his  main  concern : but  not  as  a 
livelihood.  He  did  not  wish  to  teach,  even  if  highly  profitable 
pupils  were  offered  to  him.  As  for  the  position  of  an  or- 
ganist, he  had  seen  too  much  of  the  choir-loft’s  petty  feuds 
and  jealousies  to  covet  such  thin  honors.  Rather  would  he 
devote  himself  to  the  composition  of  church  music — important 
works  for  the  organ  and  unaccompanied  anthems  and  services 
for  highly-trained  choirs.  This,  he  knew  full  well,  might 
earn  him  bread  but  not  butter.  Pecuniary  gain,  however,  did 
not  interest  him.  Once  absolved  from  the  abnormal  obliga- 
tion to  spend  nearly  a pound  a day,  he  could  live  so  cheaply 
that  his  fixed  income  would  suffice.  Indeed  he  would  be  able 
to  spend  five  or  six  months  of  every  year  in  some  fresh  country. 
He  could  visit  Italy  and  Greece,  Spain  and  Portugal,  France 
and  Belgium  and  Switzerland,  dividing  his  time  between  sight- 
seeing in  famous  cities  and  hard  work  at  his  music  in  country 
inns.  This  would  be  such  an  ideal  life  that,  sooner  or  later, 
he  would  wring  out  Mr.  Edward’s  consent  to  his  leading  it. 
As  for  love  and  marriage,  they  did  not  enter  Harry  Coggin’s 
head. 

There  was  a gurgling,  spluttering  noise : and  instantly  the 
ship ’s  bows  seemed  to  have  smashed  into  the  heart  of  a water- 
spout. Half  an  hour  before,  the  rain  had  flung  itself  at  Harry 
like  a swarm  of  wasps,  but  this  time  it  was  as  if  buckets  of 
water  were  being  dashed  in  his  face,  bucketful  after  bucketful 
with  hardly  half  a second’s  interval  between.  In  the  worst 
moments  it  was  as  though  the  boat  had  begun  to  sink  and 
that  the  whole  flood  of  the  Danube  was  pouring  over  Harry’s 
head.  When  the  most  terrible  minute  was  over,  he  opened  his 


THE  WANDERER 


311 


eyes  and  looked  round,  believing  that  he  must  swim  for  life : 
but  the  vessel  was  still  -afloat.  On  the  near  shore  he  could  see 
the  willows  bending  before  the  gale,  with  their  foliage  like 
bright  water-weeds  combed  out  by  a headlong  stream.  Then 
the  deluge  began  again,  and  once  more  all  the  waters  of  the 
world  seemed  to  engulf  him. 

Harry’s  suit  of  sheepskins  failed  him.  But  there  was  no 
traitor  joint  in  the  armor  of  his  soul.  The  twin  flames  of  his 
hope  and  faith  burned  serenely  on.  God  had  led  him  by  won- 
drous ways ; and  God  would  lead  him  to  the  end. 

Teddie  Redding’s  letter  only  deepened  the  mystery.  He 
wrote : 

Dear  Hare, 

I heard  this  morning  that  my  mother  is  not  so  well  and 
I start  for  Arcachon  in  an  hour.  So  this  must  be  a short 
note. 

All  being  well , 1 shall  await  you  at  Morley’s  Hotel,  Traf- 
algar Square,  on  the  evening  of  September  2nd.  Even  if  I 
had  time  to  write,  it  would  be  best  to  hold  bach  news  and 
plans  until  we  meet. 

As  you  are  in  Vienna , 1 suggest  your  spending  these  last 
four  weeks  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol . I cannot  promise  that  my 
arrangements  for  your  future  will  include  a waterfall  in  your 
backyard  and  a snow-clad  mountain  peak  opposite  your  bed- 
room window:  so  you  had*  better  enjoy  such  sights  while  you 
have  the  chance , 

Thanks  for  the  things . Nothing  broken  save  one  of  the 
Popish  idols  arid  two  of  the  beer-mugs. 

Always  your  faithful 

Edward  Redding. 

The  Two  Lions  turned  out  to  be  on  terms  of  brotherly  love 


312 


THE  HARE 


with  a Golden  Eagle  at  Innsbruck  and  with  a Horse,  a Bear, 
and  a Fox  in  certain  smaller  Tyrolese  towns.  Fortified  with 
cards  of  introduction  to  these  hospitable  creatures  and  con- 
soled by  the  knowledge  that  so  many  claws  and  paws  were  at 
his  call,  Henry  Coggin  boarded  the  steamer  for  Linz  on  the 
first  stage  of  his  journey  home.  What  home  was  going  to 
mean  hg  resolutely  forbore  from  guessing. 


BOOK  III 


THE  RAVEN 


/ 


Tamquam  avis , quae  transvolat  in  aere3  cujus  nullum  inveni- 
tur  argumentum  itineris,  sed  tantum  sonitus  alarum  verberans 
levem  ventum:  el  scindens  per  vim  itineris  aerem:  commotis 
alls  transvolavit  et  post  hos  nullum  signum  invenitur  itineris 
illius . — LIBER  SAPIENTIAE  V,  11, 


I 


CHAPTER  I 


NOT  knowing  when  he  might  see  high  white  mountains 
and  deep  blue  lakes  again,  Harry  left  the  manuscript 
of  his  precious  dictionary  in  safe  hold  at  Innsbruck 
and  freely  gave  himself  a month’s  out-and-out  holiday. 
"With  years  of  work  ahead,  he  felt  justified  in  breaking  off 
study  and  composition  for  these  few  weeks  so  as  to  enjoy  a 
true  vacation. 

Everything  favored  him.  Nowhere  had  be  met  such  delight- 
ful people  as  the  Tyrolese.  While  they  were  intensely  reli- 
gious and  would  have  died  proudly  in  defense  of  their 
beliefs  and  practices,  they  nevertheless  enjoyed  life  and  made 
their  guests  enjoy  it  with  them.  At  the  inns  the  warm  wel- 
comes and  regretful  farewells  rang  true.  Everybody  worked 
hard,  ate  plenty  of  good  food,  drank  good  beer  and  wine,  wore 
honest  boots  and  clothes  and  slept  dry.  The  average  of  edu- 
cation in  these  mountain  villages  rose  far  higher  than  in  Bul- 
ford-on-Deme. 

Harry ’s  chief  trouble  was  to  get  rid  of  his  ten  florins  a day : 
because,  despite  the  abundance  of  eggs  and  cream  and  fish 
and  fowl  and  flesh  and  fruit  and  wine,  the  bills  never  seemed 
to  exceed  about  eighteen  florins  a week.  As  for  the  torrents 
and  the  glaciers  and  the  green  Alps  and  the  ice-peaks,  he  saw 
them  in  their  utmost  magnificence.  Showers  and  sunshine 
made  this  Austrian  August  like  an  English  April.  Clouds 
went  about  their  high  business,  giving  to  every  hour  of  the 
day  and  to  every  feature  of  the  landscape  some  new  mien  of 
beauty  and  of  majesty.  For  a space  the  mountains  seemed 
to  hulk  up,  dry  and  arid;  then  the  veils  would  drop  from  the 

315 


316 


THE  HARE 


sun’s  face  and  every  crag  showed  a glittering  filigree  of  spark- 
ling water,  like  quicksands  and  liquid  rock-crystal  coursing 
in  the  veins  of  the  dark  rocks. 

Beyond  the  fine  thrills  of  perilous  mountaineering  and  the 
daily  delight  of  big  old-world  meals  with  the  sharp  sauce  of 
ravenous  hunger  to  help  them  down,  nothing  marked  Harry ’s 
first  fortnight  in  the  Tyrolese  highlands.  But  on  Monday, 
August  14,  something  happened. 

It  was  the  eve  of  the  Assumption  and  Harry’s  quarters  were 
in  a kind  of  inn  adjoining  the  house  of  the  parish  priest.  He 
had  stayed  in  a priestly  hostel  before  and  had  enjoyed  the 
experience  enormously.  This  one,  however,  had  been  enlarged 
year  after  year  until  it  had  become  a considerable  establish- 
ment. The  sacristan,  a fearless  mountaineer,  married  to  a 
clever  cook,  managed  it  with  the  aid  of  his  hard-working 
family,  charging  his  cosmopolitan  guests  about  three  shillings 
a day. 

From  the  nearest  railway-station  about  twenty  miles  distant, 
two  carriages,  on  this  fruitful  Monday,  brought  two  very  dif- 
ferent parties.  Out  of  the  first  vehicle  there  stepped  an 
Englishman  and  his  wife — or  rather  an  Englishwoman  and  her 
husband.  As  Harry  heard  the  lady’s  hard  tones  and  glanced 
at  the  two  faces,  one  vixenish  and  the  other  sheepish,  he  re- 
membered Edward  Redding’s  words  about  the  sort  of  English 
people  you  often  met  in  hotels  abroad.  The  lady  spoke  cor- 
rect German,  but  without  the  smallest  concession  in  respect  of 
cadence.  Her  mean,  sharp  manner  contrasted  painfully  with 
the  pleasant  open-hearted  ways  of  the  Tyrolese  whom  she  w7as 
ordering  about. 

The  other  party,  at  which  the  Englishwoman  looked  with  un- 
concealed disapproval,  consisted  of  a charming  Viennese  young 
lady  and  her  elderly  maid.  One  of  the  servants  told  Harry 
that  this  elegant  visitor  was  a very  popular  light  opera  singer 
and  that  she  came  to  the  inn  every  year.  The  servant  play- 


THE  RAVEN 


317 


fully  added  that  Harry  had  better  take  care  of  his  heart ; that 
all  the  gentlemen  fell  in  love  with  Fraulein  Rabe;  but  that 
Fraulein  Rabe,  despite  her  profession,  was  as  good  as  gold 
and  was  adored  by  everybody  in  the  parish,  from  Father 
Tobel  downwards. 

Although  he  already  knew  well  that  the  patrons  of  light 
opera  required  pretty  faces  and  willowy  forms  and  that  they 
spoke  disrespectfully  about  the  ponderous  tragedy-queens  of 
the  heavy  music-dramas,  Harry  was  not  prepared  for  the  love- 
liness which  met  his  eyes  when  the  young  prima-donna  tripped 
out  into  the  ill-kempt  garden  and  clapped  her  hands  in  affec- 
tionate greeting  to  the  rosy  mountains.  She  was  a brunette 
but  with  such  a clear  and  fine  skin  and  such  a healthy  color 
that  she  could  have  held  her  own  against  any  pink-and-white 
beauty.  Harry  suspected  that  Rabe,  meaning  Raven,  was  a 
stage-name : for  she  had  hair  as  black  and  eyes  as  blue  as  his 
own.  Though  not  extremely  slender  she  was  all  life  and  grace : 
and  her  fine,  restless  wrists  and  ankles  made  the  beholder  think 
of  a beautiful  race-horse. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  nobody  was  about  save  Harry  and 
the  ostler,  a third  carriage  rumbled  into  the  yard  and  a dressy 
young  man  alighted.  Even  after  hearing  him  give  some  dicta- 
torial orders,  Coggin  could  not  feel  sure  of  this  person’s  nation- 
ality. He  seemed  to  be  a mixture  of  Swiss  and  Lombard  and 
Greek  and  Pole : but,  as  the  supper-bell  was  about  to  ring,  there 
was  no  time  to  make  sure. 

When  the  meal  began,  Harry  saw  that  the  parish  priest  had 
joined  the  guests.  He  was  a man  of  peasant  birth  and  with 
no  pretense  of  scholarship  outside  the  minimum  requirements 
of  his  old  seminary.  Although  there  was  veal  on  the  table, 
Father  Tobel  ate  nothing  save  a little  cabbage-soup,  a plain 
omelette  and  some  creamed  spinach.  When  the  meal  came  to 
an  end,  the  kindly  old  man  made  a little  speech  welcoming 
the  new-comers  and  especially  Fraulein  Rabe.  He  added : 


318 


THE  HARE 


“As  there  are  some  ladies  and  gentlemen  here  who  are  not  of 
our  country  and  of  our  religion,  I ask  leave  to  make  an  ex- 
planation and  a request.  To-morrow  is  a great  feast — the 
Assumption.  For  hundreds  of  years — long  before  strangers 
thought  of  coming  here  to  see  our  mountains — the  fifteenth  of 
August  has  been  a holiday.  Everybody  goes  to  church  in  the 
morning,  and  the  rest  of  the  day  is  devoted  to  good  fellowship 
and  dancing  and  innocent  gaiety.  I feel  sure  that  our  visitors 
will  not  complain  if  my  good  hard-working  servants  join  in 
this  traditional  merrymaking  and  I hope  they  will  be  content 
with  less  waiting  upon,  for  this  one  day.  ’ ’ 

The  ladies  piped  approval,  the  men  hawed  assent.  Most 
of  the  guests  were  Austrian  Catholics  who  were  themselves 
bound  to  hear  Mass  on  the  morrow.  They  knew  there  would 
be  abundance  of  meat  and  drink,  and  that  the  afternoon  and 
evening  jollity  would  more  than  outweigh  any  shortcomings 
in  the  service.  Fraulein  Rabe  cried  out  prettily  that  her 
maid  Anna  would  make  the  beds  and  that  she  herself  would 
fry  a chicken  for  the  Father’s  mittagessen. 

An  acid  voice  cut  Harry’s  ear.  He  was  seated  next  to 
the  English  lady,  who  turned  to  her  husband  and  said,  with- 
out any  lowering  of  tone : 

“How  tiresome,  Robert.  If  these  people  keep  an  inn  they 
should  attend  to  business.  It  seems  we  are  to  eat  make-shift 
meals  for  a whole  day,  but  I shall  be  very  much  surprised  if 
there  is  any  allowance  on  our  bill.  If  they  are  so  exceedingly 
religious  it  would  look  better  of  them  to  treat  people  justly.” 

Only  a month  before,  Henry  Coggin  would  have  listened  to 
such  a speech  with  indignation  but  in  silence.  This  time, 
however,  he  felt  bound  to  speak.  He  said : 

“Pardon  me,  madam,  I fear  you  do  not  understand.  These 
inns  at  priests’  houses  came  into  existence  when  there  was  no 
other  shelter  for  the  traveler.  Mountaineers,  especially  Eng- 
lish people  like  ourselves,  had  recourse  to  the  presbytery. 


THE  RAVEN 


319 


They  were  hospitably  entertained,  they  left  behind  them  the 
cost  of  their  meals  and  an  offering  for  the  church  or  the  poor, 
and  when  they  returned  home  they  advised  their  friends  to 
go  and  do  likewise.  When  you  have  been  here  a few  days  you 
will  wonder  how  so  much  can  be  given  for  the  price.  Profits 
are  made,  no  doubt : but  nothing  goes  into  the  priest ’s  own 
pocket.  It  is  his  affair  no  longer,  although  he  runs  in  and 
out.” 

The  lady  who  had  eaten  with  all  the  heartiness  of  a skinny 
person,  simply  looked  Harry  up  and  down.  Then  she  turned 
to  her  husband,  a blubbery  creature  with  fat  hands  and  a soft 
beard.  Her  thin  lips  framed  a little  grimace  which  evidently 
meant:  “ Speak.  Show  this  impertinent  fellow,  who  has 
spoken  to  me  without  an  introduction,  that  I do  not  travel 
without  a male  escort  and  protector.”  Thus  challenged,  the 
spouse  hastily  gulped  down  a glass  of  wine,  deliberately  wiped 
his  mustache  with  his  napkin  and  uttered  the  stock  phrase  in 
which  he  had  been  thoroughly  instructed.  He  said : 

“I  thank  you,  but  we  do  not  require  information  or  as- 
sistance.” 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  a late-comer  entered. 
It  was  the  shifty -looking  young  man  who  had  arrived  just 
before  supper.  While  other  people  were  eating  their  soup 
and  fish  he  had  been  adorning  himself ; and  he  now  stood  be- 
fore the  company  dressed  with  a fastidiousness  ridiculously  in- 
appropriate to  such  a homely  dining-room.  Clicking  his  heels 
together  he  bowed  profoundly  to  Fraulein  Rabe,  ignoring 
everybody  else.  Instantly  the  pretty  girl’s  bright  prattle 
ceased.  It  was  plain  that  she  was  most  unpleasantly  sur- 
prised and  most  grievously  annoyed. 

“We  have  found  our  way  into  a funny  place,  Robert,”  said 
the  English  lady.  ‘ ‘ The  chambermaid  tells  me  that  that  for- 
ward young  person  is  an  opera-singer  from  Vienna.  Who 
this  fop  may  be,  goodness  only  knows:  but  there  has  cer- 


320  THE  HARE 

tainlv  been  something  between  them.  I shall  leave  here  in  the 
morning. 7 7 

Knowing  that  Father  Tobel  had  picked  up  a smattering 
of  the  language  from  his  English  visitors  in  previous  years, 
Harry’s  ears  burned.  But  when  in  an  oozing  voice,  like  oil 
after  his  wife ’s  vinegar,  the  husband  responded,  “ It  is  a good 
thing  I have  only  half  unpacked,”  Harry  took  action.  He 
lifted  the  salad-bowl  from  under  the  nose  of  the  flabby  Eng- 
lishman who  had  been  munching  greenstuff  like  a buck  rabbit 
and  pressed  it  upon  a shy  little  backfisch  on  his  left  who  did 
not  allow  it  to  return.  Then,  growing  bolder  than  ever  in 
his  life  before,  Harry  started  topics  of  conversation  on  his  own 
account.  His  German  ran  so  easily  and  rapidly  that  the  Eng- 
lish lady  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 

The  highland  valley  wherein  the  village  nestled  was  four 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  To  the  north  and  south  and  east, 
glaciers  and  mountains  shut  it  in;  but  the  slopes  fell  away 
westward,  allowing  the  August  sun  to  shine  into  the  inn  till 
supper  was  finished.  While  the  servants  cleared  away,  most 
of  the  guests  dribbled  out  upon  the  ragged  little  lawn  to  enjoy 
the  sunset.  But  Harry  did  not  follow  them.  He  had  ob- 
served that  the  smirking  dandy  did  not  take  his  eyes  off 
Fraulein  Rabe  and  his  chivalrous  instincts  held  him  at  the  post 
of  danger.  The  lady  had  withdrawn  into  the  forlorn  little 
salon,  where  there  was  a writing-table;  and  Harry  remem- 
bered that  the  salon  could  be  entered  by  two  doors,  one  from 
the  dining-room  and  one  from  a short  corridor. 

Suddenly  there  was  a scream,  a crash  of  breaking  glass  and 
then  the  violent  jangling  of  a bell.  Harry  plunged  into  the 
salon,  followed  a moment  later  by  the  innkeeper’s  wife.  The 
room  was  so  full  of  warm  light  from  the  sinking  sun  that  the 
two  figures  near  the  window  stood  out  like  the  heroine  and 
the  villain  in  a scene  of  melodrama*  The  man,  with  a fine 
white  handkerchief,  was  staunching  a gash  in  his  cheek  torn 


THE  RAVEN 


321 


by  a pin  or  by  the  lady's  finger-nail.  The  lady  herself  stood 
flashing  fire.  She  seemed  to  have  grown  inches  taller  and  to 
have  been  transformed  from  a Zerlina  into  an  Isolda.  At  her 
feet,  in  a pool  of  water,  lay  the  fragments  of  a cheap  Munich 
vase  and  the  scattered  petals  of  some  Alpine  flowers. 

The  man  made  a dash  for  the  nearer  door  but  Harry  leapt 
across  his  path  and  pushed  him  back  towards  the  window. 
Meanwhile  Fraulein  Rabe's  speech  became  more  coherent. 
Panting  with  shame  and  wrath  she  exclaimed: 

‘ 4 This  pig,  this  cur  has  followed  me  here.  In  Vienna  I 
wouldn't  even  know  him.  He  has  dared  to  throw  his  arms 
round  me,  to  kiss  me.  Frau  Nussbaum,  what  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

Speaking  with  the  utmost  scorn,  the  innkeeper 's  wife  replied 
that  the  offender  should  be  turned  out  that  very  minute  to 
find  such  shelter  as  he  could ; and  that  word  should  be  sent  to 
the  innkeeper  lower  down  the  valley  not  to  lodge  the  pig-dog 
longer  than  that  one  night. 

At  this  threat  the  pig-dog  merely  pocketed  his  reddened 
hankerchief,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said:  “Then  I had 
better  go  and  pack." 

“Wait,"  snapped  Harry,  on  a note  so  sharp  that  everybody 
jumped.  “First  of  all,  you  apologize  without  reserve  to  this 
lady:  yes,  and  to  Frau  Nussbaum  also.  Second,  you  pledge 
your  solemn  word  that  you  will  never  follow  or  in  any  way 
trouble  this  lady  again." 

Neither  the  landlady  nor  the  actress  had  taken  much  heed  of 
Coggin’s  presence  until  this  moment.  They  had  been  only 
vaguely  aware  of  him,  as  if  he  were  merely  one  of  those  futile 
spectators  who  will  always  tumble  in  the  direction  of  a scream 
or  a crash  or  a tocsin  but  will  never  do  more  than  stand  a-gape 
in  everybody's  way.  So  they  stared  at  him,  astonished;  and 
the  pig-dog  took  advantage  of  their  stupefaction  to  give  Harry 
a rude  push  and  to  make  another  stride  towards  the  door. 


322 


THE  HARE 


“You  have  heard?’’  Henry  Coggin  demanded  sternly. 
“You  understand  what  you  must  do?” 

“Yes,”  said  the  other,  “I  must  pack  and  clear  out  of  this 
nest  of  madmen  and  shrews  and  prudes.  Let  me  pass.  That’s 
all  I have  to  say.” 

The  big  casements  stood  wide  open  to  the  sunset.  A single 
glance  showed  Harry  the  fall  of  the  ground  outside.  Before 
any  one  could  guess  what  was  in  his  mind  he  seized  the  pig- 
dog  by  the  collar  with  his  left  hand,  gripped  him  in  another 
convenient  place  with  his  right,  and  flung  him  clear  through 
the  window. 

With  panic-stricken  cries  the  two  women  rushed  forward, 
quite  expecting  to  see  a broken  corpse  stretched  outside.  Cog- 
gin  ran  with  them.  What  he  saw  was  a rough  clump  of  weeds 
and  brambles  shaking  violently.  From  the  midst  of  this  oscil- 
lation rose  a terrified  voice,  wailing: 

‘ ‘ He  has  killed  me!” 

Instantly  the  sauntering  guests  jumped  from  their  chairs 
and  scampered  to  the  spot.  Even  the  Englishwoman  and  her 
husband,  who  had  been  sitting  apart,  joined  the  buzzing  swarm. 
At  length  a head  pushed  itself  through  the  nodding  greenery 
and  the  crowd  slowly  recognized  the  face  of  their  fellow- 
guest.  Even  at  supper,  at  the  height  of  its  lady-killing,  it 
had  not  been  a pleasant  face : but  now,  scratched  all  over  and 
contorted  with  horror,  it  was  a face  to  make  one  shudder. 

“No,  no,”  cried  the  sharp-witted  Frau  Nussbaum  from  the 
window  above.  “You  ’re  not  killed  yet,  my  fine  gentleman. 
You  ’re  still  alive,  though  you  don’t  deserve  to  be.”  Then, 
turning  to  the  visitors,  she  told  them  in  decorous  but  forcible 
language  of  the  disgraceful  thing  that  had  happened.  When 
the  hubbub  died  down,  Anton,  the  innkeeper’s  eldest  son, 
gravely  stepped  up  to  the  bushes  and  presented  a bill  on  a 
white  plate.  He  stood  patiently,  exaggerating  the  attitude 
and  expression  of  a waiter  expecting  a tip.  Using  language 


THE  RAVEN 


323 


which  sept  the  ladies  flying  into  the  house,  the  pig-dog  strug- 
gled out  of  the  thorns  and  barked: 

‘ ‘ Where  are  my  things  ? I sha ’n ’t  pay  till  I see  my  things.  ’ ’ 

Lena,  the  chambermaid,  was  ready.  With  a cry  of  “Geben 
Sie  Acht!”  she  deftly  dropped  an  empty  valise  from  a bed- 
room, just  above  the  saloon.  A pair  of  boots  followed:  then 
two  suits  of  clothes  and  a hat.  Afterwards,  at  her  bidding, 
Anton  caught  brushes,  jars  of  pomatum,  and  scent-bottles  in 
quick  succession.  Some  of  the  village-lads,  who  usually  hung 
about  the  inn  on  fine  evenings,  acclaimed  this  rain  of  effemin- 
ate apparatus  with  whoops  of  good-natured  derision.  When 
the  valise  had  been  stuffed  full,  Anton  contemptuously  tore 
the  bill  in  two,  lugged  the  raging  dandy  out  of  the  thorns  and 
hurried  him  through  the  garden  gate. 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  Feast  of  the  Assumption  in  1865  fell  on  a Tues- 
day. Yet  there  were  as  many  people  at  Mass  as  on 
any  Sunday.  Even  the  scraggy  English  lady  and  her 
podgy  husband  penetrated  as  far  as  the  inner  door  and  hon- 
ored the  function  with  their  disapproval.  So  dense  was  the 
throng  there  that  Henry  Coggin  did  not  notice  Fraulein  Rabe 
kneeling  behind  him  until  the  congregation  was  dispersing. 

The  lady  kept  her  distance  until  after  breakfast.  Then  she 
walked  up  to  Harry  in  the  garden,  held  out  a small  hand  and 
said  warmly : 4 4 Here  are  my  thanks.  I am  determined  to  for- 
get the  insult ; but  I shall  always  remember  my  champion.  ’ ’ 1 
Her  speech  was  so  easy  and  his  answering  flush  was  so  deep 
that  a stranger  beholding  the  two  faces  might  have  thought 
she  was  the  man  and  he  the  maid.  To  Harry’s  immense  relief, 
other  guests  came  to  the  rescue.  All  of  them  had  condolences 
for  Miss  Rabe  and  congratulations  for  Coggin. 

Early  in  the  evening  rustic  musicians  appeared  and  open-air 
dancing  began  on  a wooden  floor  sheltered  by  a pine-wood. 
To  see  the  young  men  seize  their  ten-stone  sweethearts  and 
swing  or  spin  them  high  in  the  air  was  a sight  indeed.  But 
for  the  sake  of  the  visitors,  waltzes  figured  in  the  program  as 
well  as  country  dances.  The  Raven,  as  he  heard  her  playfully 
called  by  people  who  had  met  her  the  year  before,  was  piqued 
that  Harry  did  not  ask  her  for  a dance.  He  stood,  a mere 
looker-on,  under  a pine-tree,  while  the  Raven  whirled  past 
him  again  and  again,  first  with  one  partner  and  then  with 
another.  Harry  had  the  appearance  of  a deft  and  delicious 
dancer,  and  Fraulein  Rabe  could  not  possibly  guess  that  he 

324 


THE  RAVEN 


325 


had  never  danced  in  his  life.  The  Baptists  of  Bulford,  who 
regarded  dancing  as  a quick-march  to  hell,  belonged  to  a 
world  of  which  she  had  never  heard  and  never  dreamed; 
and  when  she  blew  out  her  bedroom  candle  that  night  she 
gave  a little  angry  snort  at  the  strange  young  Englishman 
who  had  behaved  like  a knight  errant  only  twenty-four  hours 
before  and  yet  would  not  offer  even  the  common  gallantries 
of  the  ball-room. 

It  rained  hard  next  day.  Fraulein  Rabe  came  downstairs 
intending  to  treat  Coggin  with  coolness:  but  events  were  too 
strong  for  her.  Frau  Nussbaum  having  proudly  announced 
that  the  old  piano  had  been  tuned,  a dozen  voices  were  raised 
imploring  a song.  The  priest,  popping  in  for  a few  moments, 
fell  in  with  the  general  desire  and  added  jocosely:  “We  all 
know  that  our  Raven  is  really  a Nightingale.  ” But  a dead- 
lock arose.  The  Nightingale  had  brought  music  with  her,  it 
was  true:  but  who  was  to  play  it?  One  lady  after  another 
shook  her  head. 

Not  until  he  was  absolutely  sure  that  nobody  else  would 
come  forward  did  Harry  Coggin  modestly  rise  from  his  corner 
seat  and  approach  the  piano.  The  company  clapped  vigor- 
ously. This  refined  young  Englishman,  who  spoke  German 
like  a native  and  could  throw  bigger  men  than  himself  through 
windows,  had  already  attracted  them : and  now  he  was  turning 
out  to  be  a musician  too. 

In  this  almost  ecclesiastical  atmosphere  the  Raven  eschewed 
showy  examples  of  the  lighter  Viennese  school  and  chose 
songs  which  suited  Harry’s  grave  style  and  playing.  At  the 
end  of  the  first  song  she  took  advantage  of  the  noisy  applause 
to  bend  down  and  say: 

“But  you  play  divinely.” 

The  proceedings  developed,  into  a song-and-pianoforte  re- 
cital. Having  heard  most  of  them  in  the  beer-gardens,  Harry 


326 


THE  HARE 


was  able  to  delight  the  auditors  when  they  wished  for  certain 
pieces  of  the  day.  He  played,  however,  some  of  the  more 
melodious  and  lucid  pages  of  the  great  masters  also.  Gain- 
ing confidence,  and  wanting  to  make  a contrast  after  playing 
an  adagio  of  Beethoven’s,  he  dashed  into  Handel’s  “ Harmo- 
nious Blacksmith”  with  an  additional  variation  and  coda  of 
his  own.  As  he  finished  it,  a gray-haired  Austrian  approached 
him  and  said:  “Sir,  that  is  one  of  my  favorite  pieces,  but  I 
never  heard  the  last  part  of  it  before.  I know  that  the  great 
Handel  lived  in  England.  I beg  you  to  tell  me  where  I can 
obtain  the  complete  work.  Will  you  write  down  the  pub- 
lisher’s name?” 

“It  is  not  published;  not  the  last  part,”  Harry  answered. 
The  Raven  was  listening  to  him  and  he  blushed  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair.  Light  flashed  into  her  face  and  she  cried: 

“I  have  guessed,  I have  guessed!  Herr  Fecht,  our  Meester 
Englischman  composed  it  himself.  I shall  sing  no  more. 
We  are  in  the  presence  of  a genius.” 

A bell  rang,  announcing  the  glad  news  that  the  high  joys 
of  Art  were  to  make  room  for  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
On  entering  the  speisesaal  Harry  perceived  that  some  guests 
had  left  and  that  he  had  been  “moved  up”  in  his  proper  turn 
to  a seat  which  happened  to  be  opposite  the  Raven’s.  Hardly 
was  the  lady  seated  before  she  raked  him  with  questions. 
Under  what  professors  had  he  studied?  Did  he  compose 
songs?  Had  he  written  an  opera? 

Harry  fenced  unsuccessfully.  He  admitted  at  last  that  Be 
had  half -finished  an  opera  but  made  haste  to  add  that  he  had 
burnt  every  page  of  it  after  hearing  Herr  Richard  Wagner’s 
new  music-drama  two  months  before.  This  news  excited  the 
Raven  and  she  rattled  out  some  second-hand  jests  against  Wag- 
ner’s theories  which  Coggin  repelled  with  spirit.  Everybody 
except  the  Englishwoman  and  her  husband,  who  had  remained 


THE  RAVEN 


327 


at  the  inn  after  all,  listened  with  open  pleasure  to  this  unex- 
pected dialogue  which  lasted  from  the  frugal  bread-soup  to  the 
delicious  meklspeisen  or  snow  puddings.  The  elderly  Aus- 
trian, as  he  rose  from  the  table,  bowed  to  Harry  almost  rever- 
ently and  said  in  stiff  French:  “Pardon,  monsieur,  but  I shall 
always  remember  this  day  when  I am  told  that  England  is  an 
unmusical  country.  ’ ’ 

The  argument  welled  up  again  under  the  veranda  while 
loud  rain  still  poured  straight  down.  One  by  one  the  other 
visitors  decided  that  they  were  having  too  much  of  a good 
thing  and  they  slipped  upstairs  to  sleep  off  their  ample  mit- 
tagessen.  For  some  time  Harry  did  not  notice  that  he  was 
sitting  alone  with  a charming  young  lady.  He  became  con- 
scious of  the  tete-a-tete  only  when  he  happened  to  turn  his 
head  and  glance  towards  the  salon  window.  Stern  and  erect, 
the  lean  Englishwoman  was  watching  him.  Instantly,  Harry 
felt  scalding  hot  all  over.  He  thought,  in  his  innocence,  that 
he  had  committed  an  impropriety  and  he  bitterly  reproached 
himself  for  his  thoughtlessness  in  leading  Fraulein  Rabe  into 
a censurable  position.  Blurting  out  an  unskilful  apology  for 
presuming  so  long  upon  her  patience,  he  hurried  away,  leaving 
the  Raven  not  less  vexed  than  puzzled. 

At  supper  that  night  candles  had  to  be  placed  on  the  table, 
because  of  the  mists  and  clouds.  In  the  cheerful  light  Fraulein 
Rabe  apeared  twice  as  beautiful  and  ten  times  as  sprightly. 
Perhaps  the  candles  recalled  the  footlights.  She  gave  Harry 
less  rather  than  more  of  his  share  in  her  conversation.  Her 
sallies  kept  Father  Tobel’s  end  of  the  table  bubbling  with  de- 
light, and  her  gaiety  was  as  innocent  as  a child’s.  Had  he 
been  more  skilled  in  women’s  ways  Harry  would  have  seen  a 
chink  or  two  in  her'armor  of  disdain.  In  his  ignorance  he 
simply  concluded  that  he  had  exceeded  discretion  at  the 
earlier  meal  and  that  the  lady,  by  mildly  snubbing  him,  was 


328 


THE  HARE 


putting  herself  right  with  the  company.  lie  accepted  the 
light  punishment  as  just,  and  did  not  join  the  others  when 
smoky  lamps  were  lit  in  the  chilly  salon. 

Before  dawn  the  sky  cleared  and  Harry  strode  straight  from 
Father  Tobel’s  Mass  up  the  steep  valley.  By  noon  he  had 
reached  a height  of  nine  thousand  feet.  Looking  dqwn,  he 
saw  the  woods  and  the  church  and  the  inn  and  the  chalets, 
all  sharp  and  shiny  and  tiny.  Just  below  him,  in  the  vast 
bowl  of  the  upper  valley,  spouting  cataracts  and  bursting  tor- 
rents were  challenging  one  another  from  every  side,  roaring 
like  lions  and  bellowing  like  bulls.  In  the  depths  of  the 
cauldron,  great  curding  waters  throbbed  and  seethed. 
Around  him  the  highest  mountains,  blank  and  silent,  exalted 
their  bright  horns  into  the  blue  sky.  Eternity  itself  seemed 
to  dwell  among  those  white  domes  and  snow-crusted  gables. 

Never  before  had  Harry  drunk  in  such  wine-like  air  and 
listened  to  such  god-like  voices.  And  yet,  although  this  was  be- 
yond doubt  the  climax  of  his  wander  year,  a little  ache  of  dis- 
content dulled  his  happiness.  For  once  he  failed  in  that  all- 
day-long gratitude  to  God  which  was  the  habit  of  his  soul.  He 
explained  this  dulling  of  his  spirit’s  fine  edge  by  telling  him- 
self that  he  was  hungry : but  at  the  sight  of  his  bread  and,  cold 
chicken  and  cheese  and  wine  set  out  in  the  snow  he  discerned 
what  had  gone  wrong.  His  trouble  was  simply  that  he  could  n’t 
be  in  two  places  at  once.  The  solitary  mountain-top  was  glo- 
rious beyond  all  imagining;  and  yet  how  cheerful  it  must  be 
down  in  the  inn ! His  watch  told  him  that  the  dinner-bell  had 
just  done  clanging.  Here  amidst  the  eternal  snow  the  thin 
wind  stung  cold.  Down  there  it  was  warm.  There  would  be 
flowers  on  the  table  and  warm  dishes  coming  up  from  the 
kitchen.  There  would  be  jocund  faces,  eager  talk,  friendly 
laughter.  Fraulein  Rabe  would  once  more  be  the  life  of  the 
table,  opposite  his  own  empty  chair. 

Although  it  was  the  Raven ’s  -black  tresses  and  violet  eyes 


THE  RAVEN 


329 


and  dimpling  chin  that  rose  up  before  Harry’s  mind  he  was 
not  conscious  of  wishing  for  the  lady’s  society  any  more  than 
for  Father  Tobel’s  or  for  Herr  Fecht’s.  He  considered  him- 
self definitely  dismissed  from  her  favor,  and  would  not  in  any 
case  have  presumed  to  mate  himself  with  her  for  a single 
moment  in  a romantic  dream.  Yet,  when  she  had  once  come 
into  his  head,  she  would  not  go  out  again.  As  he  painfully 
descended  towards  the  glacier,  Harry  remembered  again  and 
again,  with  flushes  of  pride  and  pleasure,  her  raptures  about 
his  composition.  What  if  to-morrow  should  be  rainy  and  she 
should  ask  him  to  play  again  ? He  called  to  mind  his  compo- 
sitions for  the  piano  and  all  of  them,  seemed  old  and  dry. 
Why  should  he  not  please  her  by  composing  a new  albumblatt 
in  her  honor?  Taking  out  a sheet  of  music-paper  he  headed 
it  The  Eaven  and  jotted  down  the  happy  inspiration  which 
instantly  possessed  him. 

Meanwhile  the  mid-day  meal  which  Harry’s  imagination  had 
pictured  in  such  lively  shapes  and  cheery  colors  was  dragging 
along  like  a funeral  feast.  Fraulein  Rabe  came  downstairs 
prepared  to  take  the  young  Englishman  gradually  back  into 
favor.  She  had  turned  over  in  her  clever  head  some  telling 
sentences  about  music  and  the  theater  so  as  to  hold  her  own. 
When  the  fish  was  served  and  Harry’s  chair  still  remained 
empty,  a pain  like  toothache  and  hunger  and  thirst  all  at 
once  made  her  turn  suddenly  white.  He  had  left  the  inn 
and  gone  back  to  England ! At  that  moment,  the  poor  Raven 
knew  for  the  first  time  in  her'  short  life  what  it  was  to  be  in 
love.  She  had  sung  hundreds  of  times  about  her  fond  heart’s 
yearning  and  had  regarded  the  phrase  as  a mere  theatrical 
property  like  her  gilded  tin  coronet  and  the  cotton-wool  ermine 
which  she  wore  when  taking  the  role  of  a princess.  Now  the 
strange  pangs  in  her  breast,  as-  if  the  very  fountain  of  her 
life  was  first  congealing  into  a little  hard  knob  of  ice  and  then 


330 


THE  HARE 


suddenly  thawing  and  gushing  forth  again  like  a hot  spring 
from  a rock,  told  her  that  she  had  a heart  indeed  and  that  it 
could  break  and  bleed. 

So  clever  an  actress  would  have  found  it  easy  to  dissemble 
her  pain  and  to  affect  light-hearted  gaiety.  But  it  was  too 
late.  The  thin-lipped,  keen-eyed  Englishwoman  stabbed  at 
the  hapless  girl’s  vitals  with  a glance  more  cruel  than  a vul- 
ture’s beak  and  tore  out  her  secret.  Fraulein  Rabe  blushed 
scarlet.  For  a moment  she  hated  Harry  Coggin — hated  him 
because  he  had  made  her  love  him,  hated  him  because  he  was 
not  with  her,  hated  him  most  of  all  because  he  was  a com- 
patriot of  that  utterly  hateful  woman. 

4 ‘Where  is  our  new  Schubert,  our  young  Englishman?” 
asked  the  elderly  Austrian.  And  although  the  Raven  helped 
herself  to  salad  and  pretended  to  ignore  the  question,  her  blood 
raced  when  she  heard  that  he  was  climbing  an  easy  mountain 
and  would  be  back  for  supper.  But  her  wrath  remained. 

At  two  o’clock  the  smarting  beauty  moodily  accompanied 
Anna,  her  maid,  to  their  favorite  spot  on  the  fringe  of  the 
pine-wood,  where  the  afternoon  sun  could  cheer  but  not  scorch 
her.  In  preceding  summers,  the  Raven  had  been  deliciously 
happy  in  this  fragrant  nest.  For  an  hour  or  so  it  was  her 
habit  to  read  a Vienna  journal  or  a novel  and  then  she  would 
stretch  herself  out  on  a thick  rug  and  lie  basking  in  the  peace 
of  the  warm  forest  and  the  cool  mountains.  But,  on  this 
Thursday  afternoon,  peace  would  not  be  wooed  and  won. 
Twenty  times  she  resolved  to  keep  her  gaze  fixed  on  the 
glittering  waters  and  rich  pastures  of  the  lower  valley:  and 
twenty  times  she  caught  herself  glancing  hungrily  at  the 
eastward  track  by  which  Harry  must  return  from  the  glacier. 
At  last  she  gave  up  the  struggle  and  yielded  herself  softly 
to  a sweet  day-dream. 

Fraulein  Rabe  was  not  only  an  actress  but  boasted  an  actress 
for  her  mother  too.  At  no  time  had  she  been  forced  to  strug- 


THE  RAVEN 


331 


gle.  With  even  half  her  talents  and  good  looks  she  would  have 
been  assured  of  Vienna’s  good-will*  by  reason  of  her  mother’s 
popularity.  When  as  an  orphan  maid  of  eighteen  she  came 
out  of  a convent  school  and  began  her  stage  career,  the  older 
actors  and  actresses  and  managers  had  gathered  round  her 
like  a bodyguard  of  foster-fathers  and  god-mothers.  Some  of 
these  champions  of  virtue  had  been  sad  dogs  in  their  youth 
and  for  that  very  reason  they  devoted  themselves  with  zeal 
to  the  Raven’s  professional  and  moral  welfare.  As  for  the 
younger  players  and  playgoers,  they  readily  fell  in  with  the 
rule  that  Fraulein  Rabe  was  a young  lady  to  be  respected.  To 
silence  a new-comer  or  foreigner  who  might  begin  to  speak  or 
act  loosely  in  her  presence  was  a token  of  one’s  own  good 
standing  in  Vienna’s  theatrical  world.  Besides  all  this,  the 
girl’s  unaffectedly  virginal  air,  her  simplicity,  her  unfailing 
generosity  to  le$s  fortunate  colleagues,  her  complete  lack  of 
jealousy,  her  kindness  to  beginners,  her  solid  though  reticent 
piety  and  her  irresistible  sprightliness  had  made  her  a woman 
sacrosanct  and  apart. 

For  the  first  three  years,  this  bird-like  creature  loved  the 
stage  without  reserve.  She  was  a true  Viennese,  adoring  light 
and  laughter  and  color  and  melody  and  rhythm.  But  a time 
came  when  her  protectors  began  to  let  her  see  they  judged  her 
old  enough  to  take  care  of  herself.  Gradually  the  atmosphere 
surrounding  her  grew  a little  grosser.  Adorers,  who  had  been 
content  to  send  her  bouquets  in  exchange  for  one  radiant  and 
friendly  smile,  became  more  insistent,  until  her  faithful  Anna 
restored  the  situation  by  soundly  boxing  the  ears  of  a self- 
invited  visitor.  At  the  theater  itself  she  commanded  as  much 
respect  and  affection  as  ever:  but  as  she  came  to  know  more 
and  more  of  this  naughty  world  and  to  learn  the  manner  of 
life  of  colleagues  whom  she  had  held  in  high  regard,  her 
spirit  sickened.  To  make  things  worse,  she  was  condemned 
at  that  time  to  sing  inane  words,  set  to  music  which  was 


332 


THE  HARE 


advertised  as  “all  sparkle’ ’ but  was  in  truth  all  froth. 

Reclining  on  her  rug  Fniulein  Rabe  gazed  up  through  the 
russet  tree-tops  at  the  white  and  blue  sky.  The  scent  of  the 
pines  came  to  her  nostrils  deliciously,  and  she  was  seized  with 
a loathing  for  the  reek  of  the  theater,  its  cosmetics,  its  gas- 
lights, its  crowd  of  over-fed  people.  In  such  a world,  what 
was  to  be  her  future  ? She  was  making  a great  deal  of  money, 
but  owing  to  the  thoughtlessness  of  her  professional  sisters 
who  kept  on  incessantly  applying  to  her  for  grants-in-aid 
which  they  called  loans,  she  had  saved  only  a few  thousand 
florins.  When  youth  and  beauty  faded  where  would  she  be? 

The  slender,  muscular  figure  and  fine  pensive  face  of  Harry 
Coggin  appeared  before  her  soul’s  eyes,  came  close  to  her, 
soothed  her,  refreshed  her,  heartened  her.  Harry  was  not 
elegant  like  the  exquisites  of  Vienna.  He  had  no  easy  flow 
of  banter  and  gallantry,  no  airs  and  graces  towards  women. 
For  these  very  reasons  he  had  brought  her  to  a halt  before 
him  and  now,  without  the  shadow  of  a doubt,  she  was  in  love 
with  him,  as  wholly  and  terribly  in  love  as  any  desperate  damsel 
she  had  met  on  the  pages  of  romance.  What  rapture  it  would 
be  if,  instead  of  returning  from  the  glacier  down  the  stony 
path,  he  should  come  singing  and  swinging  over  these  pine- 
needles,  by  the  long  way  round  ! He  would  read  her  secret 
in  her  glad  eyes.  He  would  say  to  her  gently:  “Now  I know 
that  you  love  me  as  I love  you.”  He  would  take  her  in  his 
arms  and  lay  her  head  upon  his  firm  shoulders.  He  would 
. . . yes,  he  would  press  upon  her  lips  a kiss,  many  kisses. 

She  dreamed  on.  Probably  he  was  not  rich,  but  at  least 
lie  had  the  means  of  livelihood.  She  would  join  her  little 
hoard  to  his.  They  would  travel  together,  just  they  two,  in 
Egypt?  in  Italy,  in  France,  in  Spain,  and  in  his  own  misty 
England.  He  would  write  great  music  and  especially  wonder- 
ful songs  for  her  to  sing.  She  would  forsake  the  stage,  but 
sometimes  they  would  give  recitals,  just  they  two.  She  was 


THE  RAVEN 


333 


Sure  he  was  a good  Catholic ; for  had  she  not  seen  him  at  Mass? 
They  would  visit  Rome  and  the  Holy  Land  and  that  new  shrine 
in  the  French  Pyrenees  of  which  everybody  was  talking, 
just  they  two.  And  somewhere  they  would  have  a little  house, 
just  they  two,  on  an  island  in  an  Italian  lake,  where  they  could 
keep  the  spoils  of  their  travels  and  where  they  could  grow 
old  together  when  travel-days  were  done. 

Her  fancy  went  on  blowing  a bubble  as  round  as  the  world 
and  painted  with  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  Suddenly  it 
broke  and  she  sprang  to  her  feet  so  abruptly  that  the  dozing 
Anna  woke  up  in  a fright.  Fraulein  Rabe  reassured  her  and 
began  pacing  to  and  fro.  She  tried  to  scold  and  ridicule  her- 
self as  a silly  school-girl  and  even  to  despise  herself  as  a for- 
ward hussy,  but  it  was  no  good.  It  became  as  clear  as  noon- 
day that  she  had  met  the  first  and  only  man  she  could  love 
and  that  she  must  either  actively  assist  Providence  or  re- 
proach herself  for  false  modesty  to  her  life’s  end. 

Harry’s  evident  shyness  did  not  daunt  her.  On  the  con- 
trary it  justified  her  plans  and  would  give  zest  to  their  exe- 
cution. The  principal  danger  was  that  he  might,  after  the 
fashion  of  those  restless  young  Englishmen,  stuff  his  gear  into 
his  rucksack  and  depart  from  the  inn  without  even  saying 
good-by.  And  there  were  other  doubts  and  fears.  Perhaps — 
and  this  was  probable — his  family  would  sternly  forbid  his 
union  with  an  actress  and  a foreigner.  Or  perhaps  he  was  be- 
trothed already  to  some  fair-haired  English  miss. 

That  night  the  Raven  proved  that  her  fame  as  the  loveli- 
est girl  in  Vienna  owed  nothing  to  powder  and  paint  and 
limelight.  She  appeared  in  a wine-colored  dress,  with  cream 
roses  in  her  hair  and  on  her  breast.  Unlike  all  the  other  ladies, 
at  the  table  she  wore  nor  finger  rings,  nor  ear-rings,  nor  brooch 
nor  bracelet.  When  Harry  met  her  eyes  they  flashed  a chal- 
lenge at  him  which  would  have  set  far  cooler  men  on  fire:; 


334 


THE  HARE 


but  the  burning  darts  were  quenched  in  the  dews  of  his 
humility.  Perhaps  the  case  would  have  been  altered  a little 
if  those  clear  violet  eyes  could  have  had  Harry  all  to  them- 
selves. He  was  painfully  aware,  however,  of  two  gray-green 
eyes  as  well — the  eyes  which  had  stared  at  him  the  afternoon 
before  from  the  salon  window. 

Innocently  interpreting  the  Raven’s  cream  roses  as  the 
signals  of  some  festivity  upon  which  he  must  not  intrude, 
Harry,  when  supper  came  to  an  end,  was  about  to  steal  out 
of  the  speisesaal  and  to  lay  his  weary  limbs  in  bed.  But  the 
lady  stopped  him  in  the  doorway  and,  said: 

“Last  night,  Herr  Musician,  you  played  truant.  I was 
very  angry  with  you.  I wanted  to  sing  and  there  was  nobody 
to  play.’’ 

The  gray-haired  Austrian  backed  her  up  and  Harry  was 
gently  borne  along  into  the  salon.  Fraulein  Rabe  sang  half- 
a-dozen  songs  by  Schumann,  most  of  them  a shade  too  grave 
for  her  trilling,  ringing  voice.  When  it  came  to  playing, 
Harry  too  chose  Schumann  until  some  of  the  hearers  grew 
restive.  X 

“I  insist  on  hearing  more  of  your  own,”  said  the  lady. 
“In  reparation  for  running  away  last  night,  you  shall  do  as 
I bid  you.  Play  me  the  very  latest  of  your  compositions. 
Have  you  composed  anything  since  you  came  here?” 

“Yes,”  Harry  answered,  with  another  of  the  quick  blushes 
which  she  found  so  adorable. 

“When?  Tuesday?  Yesterday?  To-day?  I see  it  was 
to-day.  How  charming.  Play.  I command  you.” 

Harry  was  not  loth  to  comply.  He  believed  the  new  album 
leaf  to  be  the  best  thing  he  had  written  and  if  the  salon  had 
been  empty  he  would  have  slipped  in  before  supper  to  strum 
it.  With  sun-browned  fingers  he  began  to  play.  Fraulein 
Rabe  quietly  sat  down  behind  him.  It  slipped  Harry’s  mem-' 
ory  that  his  guide-book  was  on  the  little  table  beside  her  and 


THE  RAVEN 


335 


that  the  penciled  manuscript  lay  folded  inside  it.  He 
warmed  to  his  work,  not  without  frequent  pangs  at  the  short- 
comings of  the  piano.  When  he  stopped,  everybody  applauded 
and  the  ladies  resumed  a spirited  discussion  on  the  best  sauce 
for  a fish  from  a lake  in  Hungary,  much  loved  of  the  Viennese. 
Underneath  through  the  din,  a clear  little  voice  said  softly  in 
Harry ’s  ear: 

“Thanks  and  thanks  and  thanks.  It  is  most  beautiful. 
And  you  composed  it  all  for  me.” 

Harry  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot  and  swung  round  so 
swiftly  that  his  cheek  struck  a petal  from  one  of  her  roses. 
Her  hands  were  locked  behind  her,  hiding  something  from  him. 
He  glanced  towards  the  guide-book  and  saw  that  the  folded 
sheet  of  thick  paper  no  longer  bulged  between  its  leaves. 

“Forgive  me,  clever  Meester  Englischman,”  she  pleaded,  in 
tones  lower  and  more  delicious  than  ever.  “I  did  not  mean 
to  do  it.  Whenever  I see  a book  I pick  it  up ; and  before  I 
knew  what  was  happening  I saw  my  name.  Say  that  I am 
pardoned.  Say  you  are  not  angry.  And  promise  that  when 
you  have  made  a copy  the  original  shall  belong  to  me.” 

The  elderly  Austrian  crossed  the  room  and  sat  between  them, 
pouring  out  compliments.  When  he  pressed  for  the  name  of 
the  new  work,  Harry  described  it  as  simply  an  Allegretto  in 
F Minor;  whereupon  the  black-haired  maiden  protested,  say-* 
ing: 

“Dear  Herr  Fecht,  I am  in  disgrace  already  with  our 
grumpy  Englischman,  so  one  more  indiscretion  will  not  mat- 
ter. It  is  a secret,  but  this  piece  is  for  me  and  it  is  called 
The  Raven” 

Herr  Fecht  paid  some  more  compliments  and  rounded  them 
off  by  saying : ‘ ‘ This  Raven  is  far  more  interesting  than  Schu- 
mann ’s  Prophet  Bird . And  he  is  not  at  all  like  an  old  raven 
sitting  on  a skull  and  croaking.  He  is  a very  young  raven, 
perching  among  spring  leaves,  trying  to  be  a thrush.” 


336 


THE  HARE 


One  guest  after  another  came  up  and  joined  the  group  until 
Friiulein  Rabe  was  queening  it  in  the  midst  of  an  admiring 
circle.  She  took  pains,  however,  to  make  everybody  praise  the 
talent  of  Coggin;  and  when  breaking-up  time  came  she  con- 
trived to  say  to  him  quietly:  “You  have  not  told  me  that  I am 
forgiven,  or  that  I may  keep  this  manuscript.’' 

“You  did  not  know  it  was  in  the  book  and  you  will  do  me 
a great  honor  by  accepting  it,”  said  Coggin.  There  was  a 
glow  of  pride  and  gratitude  in  his  face  which  she  mistook  for 
a very  different  sentiment  and  her  heart  beat  fast  with  joy. 
As  if  by  accident  she  brushed  her  hand  against  the  rose  from 
which  Harry  had  already  struck  one  petal,  till  three  or  four 
more  creamy  curly  leaves  fluttered  to  the  floor. 

“Good-night,”  she  said;  and  then  added  “auf  wiedersehen. ” 

Harry  responded  politely  and  she  moved  quietly  from  the 
room.  Through  the  crack  of  the  door  she  looked  back,  fully 
expecting  to  catch  him  stooping  and  picking  up  the  petals. 
Instead  she  saw  the  young  man  simply  pocket  his  guide-book 
and  walk  towards  the  other  door. 


CHAPTER  III 


AWAKING  very  early,  Fraulein  Rabe  shook  her  coarse 
pillow  and  settled  down  to  hard  thinking.  The  night 
had  not  weakened  her  conviction  that  life  could  never 
be  the  same  again  and  that  in  no  circumstances  would  she 
return  to  the  stage.  She  pitied  herself  to  the  extent  of  shed- 
ding a few  tears.  Having  reached  the  ripe  age  of  twenty- 
three  without  an  affair  of  the  heart,  she  knew  that  her  present 
case  was  a serious  one  and  that  this  sudden  first  love  would 
also  be  her  last.  If  she  should  fail  to-day,  or  to-morrow,  or  on 
Sunday  at  latest,  then  life  would  be  a failure  too  and  there 
would  be  no  refuge  from  incurable  heart-pains  save  the  old 
convent. 

Thoughts  of  the  convent  brought  back  to  her  memory  some 
words  of  a certain  Sister  Philomena  who  had  charged  her  over 
and  over  again  to  hear  Mass  in  every  crisis  of  life  and  thus 
give  the  Holy  Spirit  a chance  of  speaking  audibly  to  her  soul. 
Instantly  she  sprang  out  of  bed.  Heaven  should  decide. 
Without  arousing  Anna,  the  Raven  made  the  simplest  toilette 
and  stole  downstairs. 

The  little  church  was  empty.  She  was  not  in  the  least  dis- 
appointed by  the  absence  of  Coggin.  His  presence  in  church 
on  the  preceding  Tuesday  was  natural;  because  the  Assump- 
tion was  a day  of  obligation.  Many  young  men  in  Vienna 
heard  Mass  dutifully  on  Sundays  and  high  festivals  but  prac- 
tically never  on  ordinary  week-days.  Indeed  it  would  have 
astonished  her  to  see  Harry  there.  The  lonely  girl  went  for- 
ward to  the  front  chairs  so  as  to  kneel  as  close  as  possible 
to  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  She  heard  other  worshipers  set- 

337 


338 


THE  HARE 


tling  do^  behind  her  but  did  not  turn  her  head.  The  bell 
rang  and  the  cure  entered  from  the  sacristy,  with  Fritz  Hofer 
the  wheelwright  as  server.  Friiulein  Rabe  opened  her  book 
with  an  almost  fierce  prayer  that  light  might  come  before  she 
closed  it.  The  light  was  given  her  in  that  same  instance.  It 
shone  out  from  the  headline  of  the  page  before  her.  In  Ger- 
man she  read  simply : 4 £ The  Holy  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass.  7 7 

Sacrifice.  The  word  pierced  her  like  a white-hot  blade  and 
she  quailed  before  it.  So  she  was  to  rouse  herself  from  her 
fond  fancies  and  set  her  feet  upon  that  hard  road  which 
climbed  heavenward  between  hedges  of  cold  white  lilies.  She 
must  forget  the  fragrant  dream-path,  winding  through  brakes 
of  roses  whose  very  thorns  were  sweet  because  their  light 
scratches  proved  to  lovers  that  their  veins  ran  indeed  with 
warm  red  blood. 

Yet  . . . were  there  not  many  kinds  and  ways  of  sacrifice? 
The  Raven  had  been  taught  her  religion  well,  and  it  was  her 
practice  to  follow  Mass  in  the  very  words  of  the  missal  and  not 
in  the  platitudinous  paraphrases  of  pious  middle-men.  She 
wrenched  her  mind  away  from  generalities  and  bent  over  the 
book.  In  a clear  voice  the  celebrant  began  the  psalm  which 
she  knew  was  being  said  in  the  self-same  Latin  at  a hundred 
thousand  Catholic  altars. 

“ Introibo  ad  altare  Dei:  ‘I  will  go  in  unto  the  altar  of 
God,7  77  said  the  priest.  And  the  wheelwright  in  his  rough 
Latin  answered : 

“Ad  Deum}  qui  laetificat  juventutem  meant:  ‘To  God  who 
maketh  my  youth  glad!7  77 

At  that  moment  some  butter-fingered  believer  let  slip  a 
brass-clasped  book  which  rapped  the  floor  loudly.  Fraulein 
Rabe  turned  round ; and  among  the  few  faithful  she  saw  Harry 
Coggin  kneeling  in  an  obscure  comer  and  evidently  saying 
his  prayers.  The  sanctity  of  the  place  and  of  the  hour  could 
not  hinder  her  soul  from  rushing  to  meet  his.  The  other  wor- 


THE  RAVEN 


339 


shipers  seemed  to  sink  into  the  ground.  She  and  Harry. 
Harry  and  she,  just  they  two  were  hearing  this  Mass  for 
heavenly  guidance.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  trem- 
bling with  gratitude.  She  needed  the  book  no  longer : because 
the  Holy  Spirit  descended  upon  her,  not  only  shining  like  a 
great  light  but  also  burning  like  a great  fire  which  fused  into 
unworldly  unity  the  two  contradictory  messages  she  had  just 
read.  God  was  about  to  make  her  youth  glad : but  the  glad- 
ness was  to  rise  higher  than  mere  pleasure.  It  was  to  be  the 
gladness  of  sacrifice,  of  holy  sacrifice. 

On  a gaudy  side-altar  stood  a satin-clad  wooden  figure  of 
Our  Lady  of  the  Seven  Dolors.  Our  Lady’s  heart  was 
pierced  with  seven  real  swords.  Fraulein  Rabe  gazed  at  the 
image  and  meditated  upon  it.  Yesterday  she  had  dreamed  of 
a life-long  honeymoon,  with  deep  draughts  every  day  from 
the  spiced  and  scented  cup  of  joy:  but  this  morning  she  knew 
that  a pierced  Hand  would  hold  out  to  her  another  chalice. 
Perhaps  it  had  been  thus  even  with  the  Blessed  Virgin  her- 
self. Perhaps  the  Holy  Mary  had  expected  at  first  that  her 
Son  would  receive  naught  save  love  and  honor  and  obedience 
from  men  and  that  her  own  life  would  be  all  glories  and  roses. 
And  there,  all  the  time,  whetting  themselves  sharper  with 
every  tarrying  day,  were  the  seven  swords  of  her  seven  sor- 
rows. 

The  Raven  bowed  her  head  again  and  began  to  wonder  what 
swords  were  a-sharpening  for  her  own  soul.  She  felt  sure  that 
she  would  not  have  to  suffer  the  wrongs  of  certain  wives  she 
knew  in  Vienna  who  were  yoked  to  unfaithful,  or  drunken,  or 
unbelieving,  or  gambling  husbands.  Of  Harry’s  ingrained 
and  ineradicable  goodness  there  could  be  no  doubt.  But  once 
married  to  this  earnest  young  genius,  might  not  his  primness 
chafe  her  wild  young  spirit?  Was  it  not  almost  certain  that 
in  such  serious  company  she  would  grow  old  before  her  time 
and  that  she  would  bitterly  lament  her  lost  gaiety  and  liberty? 


340 


THE  HARE 


The  unheeded  petals  had  proved  him  to  be  the  phlegmatic 
Englishman  so  often  depicted  by  the  satirists.  Yet,  if  these 
were  the  only  sacrifices,  she  would  make  them  proudly.  Yes- 
terday she  had  thought  of  herself  and  of  her  own  happiness* 
Now  she  thought  of  her  beloved  and  she  was  ready  to  creep 
along  the  ground  in  chains  if  thus  he  might  soar  more  freely. 

The  server  rang  the  bell  for  the  Elevation.  The  celebrant 
held  up  the  sacred  Body  and  the  precious  Blood.  And,  with- 
out a moment’s  warning,  black  darkness  swallowed  her  up. 
This  was  Calvary.  An  earthquake  seemed  to  shake  the  world 
she  had  known  from  under  her  feet.  A sword,  seven  swords, 
seventy  times  seven  swords  crept  and  turned  in  her  flesh. 
And  when  the  darkness  lifted  and  she  could  gaze  once  more 
at  the  sorrowful  Mother  she  understood  that  God  was  going 
to  require  of  her  a sacrifice  indeed:  a sacrifice  as  big  as  the 
mountains:  a sacrifice  such  as  would  make  the  little  troubles 
and  misunderstandings  of  the  home  seem  no  more  than  grains 
of  dust:  a sacrifice  in  darkness  and  in  desolation  that  should 
break  her  body  and  shed  her  blood.  Yet,  out  of  this  fearful 
cloud,  there  burst  a heavenly  light.  She  crouched  like  a poor 
lamb  beside  the  sacrificial  stone:  but  while  she  shrank  she 
was  glad. 

With  the  departure  of  the  priest  from  the  altar  and  with 
the  clattering  of  fifty  feet  on  the  floor,  her  mystical  vision 
and  exaltation  left  her.  All  that  remained  was  the  noon-day 
clearness  of  her  belief  that  God  Himself  had  brought  the  Eng- 
lishman into  her  life  and  that  it  was  her  bounden  duty  to 
further  some  vast  design,  whatever  it  might  cost.  She  waited 
for  Harry  at  the  church  door  and  walked  quietly  back  with 
him  to  the  inn. 

As  it  was  still  very  early  and  the  speisezimmer  was  not  yet 
swept  and  dusted,  the  faithful  Anna  had  taken  it  upon  her- 
self to  set  a table  in  a sunny  comer  of  the  garden  and  to  order 
for  her  hungry  young  mistress  a pitcher  of  hot  chocolate 


THE  RAVEN 


341 


with  milk  just  milked,  eggs  just  laid,  country  bread,  butter 
churned  the  day  before,  and  a pot  of  heather  honey.  Harry 
could  not  help  envying  his  pretty  companion.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  entering  the  house  when  she  demanded : 

“Why  go  in?  Breakfast  inside  won’t  be  ready  for  half 
an  hour  at  least.  Anna  thinks  I have  the  appetite  of  a 
giantess.  There ’s  quite  enough  for  two.  ’ 9 

Harry  sat  down,  uttering  warm  thanks.  The  Raven  filled 
two  thick  cups  with  chocolate ; and  while  Anna  was  away  boil- 
ing the  eggs,  she  burst  out : 

“But  how  shocking  of  us,  Meester  Englischman!  What 
would  your  mama  say  and  your  sisters  if  they  knew  you  were 
having  breakfast  all  alone  with  an  actress,  not  very  old  and  not 
very  ugly?” 

“That  is  easily  answered,”  said  Coggin.  “I  have  no  mama 
and  no  sisters.  So  far  as  I know  I have  n’t  a near  relation  in 
the  world.  ’ ’ 

“Poor  Englischman.  You  are  like  the  poor  Raven.  She 
has  many  friends  but  no  relations.  But  come.  If  your  bride 
knew  that  her  bridegroom  was  drinking  chocolate  with  me,  she 
would  be  angry,  now  would  n ’t  she  ? ’ ’ 

Harry  was  well  aware  that  bride  and  bridegroom,  in  the 
German  language,  did  not  mean  a newly-married  couple. 
Bride  and  bridegroom  meant  a betrothed  pair.  He  replied : 

“That  is  answered  just  as  easily.  You  will  believe  that  I 
have  no  bride  when  I tell  you  that  I have  neither  written  a 
letter  to  nor  received  a letter  from  any  lady  since  I left 
England  nearly  fifteen  months  ago.” 

“I  am  glad,”  she  said.  “I  don’t  like  making  people  angry. 
The  English  lady  and  her  husband  up  there  in  the  house  are 
angry  with  me  all  day  long.  You  ran  away  from  England  to 
escape  such  people?  And  now  they  have  followed  you  here, 
up  into  the  mountains.  I suppose  you  will  run  away  from 
them  again?” 


342 


THE  HARE 


“Not  exactly,’ ’ said  Harry.  “I  shall  not  leave  here  till 
Sunday  afternoon.  At  the  beginning  of  September  I must 
be  in  London.” 

Anna  returned  with  the  eggs,  so  Fraulein  Rabe  was  able 
to  conceal  the  turmoil  which  Harry’s  announcement  had  set 
going  with  her.  His  matter-of-fact  tone  hurt  her  even  more 
than  his  indifference  to  her  rose-petals  the  night  before.  The 
girl’s  pride  rose  up.  She  ate  and  drank  as  if  his  movements 
did  not  interest  her  any  further : and  she  assured  herself  that 
she  was  most  certainly  not  going  to  be  so  undignified  as  to 
run  after  this  ungallant  and  cold-blooded  young  man.  But 
when  she  threw  a furtive  glance  across  the  table  and  saw  once 
again  his  fine  face  and  high  forehead,  his  honest  eyes  and 
resolute  mouth,  his  clear  skin  and  splendidly-knit  frame,  her 
anger  went  out  like  a candle-flame  in  a wind.  Here  was  a 
man  indeed:  but  not  a man  of  the  world.  Wedded  to  the 
right  wife  he  would  never  knowingly  give  her  pain ; but  wed- 
ded to  the  wrong  woman  his  own  sensitive  spirit  would  dwell 
ever  afterwards  in  a torture-chamber. 

Over  the  honey  she  prattled  a good  deal  about  her  years  in 
the  convent.  She  showed  him  her  prayer-book  which  the 
nuns  had  given  her  and  also  the  book-markers  consisting  of 
tiny  engravings  of  saints  and  scenes  from  the  passion.  On 
some  of  them  was  written  “For  Christina  Maria.” 

“That  is  my  name,”  she  explained.  “Christina  Maria. 
Do  you  think  it  is  a pretty  name  ? ’ ’ 

Coggin  remained  silent  awhile.  Then  he  said  with  rever- 
ence: “Surely  Christina  Maria  is  the  greatest  of  names.” 

For  a moment  or  two  she  was  puzzled.  At  last  his  meaning 
burst  over  her:  and  with  it  came  back  a full  memory  of  her 
experience  in  church  an  hour  earlier.  Until  this  moment  there 
had  been  no  significance  for  her  soul  in  the  name  of  Christina 
Maria.  What  he  had  said,  and  his  way  of  saying  it,  frightened 


THE  RAVEN  343 

her  and  made  her  feel  how  completely  she  was  passing  into 
his  power. 

Anna,  who  had  a duenna’s  terror  of  scandal,  bustled  up  to 
get  all  signs  of  the  feast  removed.  Christina  knew  that  the 
moment  for  action  had  come.  She  was  going  to  ask  this  bash- 
ful knight  to  be  her  escort  in  a forest  adventure.  She  was 
going  to  make  the  request  boldly,  naturally,  with  unreddening 
cheeks.  If  he  should  excuse  himself  by  pleading  other  plans, 
she  would  have  the  consciousness  of  duty  done  and  would  leave 
Providence  to  carry  out  its  own  designs.  But  if  he  should 
abandon  some  project — and  she  was  sure  that,  in  his  methodi- 
cal way,  he  had  made  one — this  would  be  a sign  that  he  did 
indeed  find  delight  in  her  society ; and  during  three  hours  of 
close  companionship  it  would  be  her  feminine  task  to  make 
him  feel  that  he  could  never  again  do  without  her. 

“My  Anna  is  splendid,”  she  said  as  the  plump  maid  went 
off  with  the  tray,  4 ‘ but  she  Will  only  walk  on  roads  and  easy 
footpaths.  I want  so  much  to  see  the  Wasserblase.  Please 
take  me  to  the  Wasserblase.” 

Harry  Coggin  had  sentenced  himself  to  an  easy  and  lazy 
day,  in  preparation  for  an  exceptionally  arduous  climb  with 
a guide  on  the  morrow.  A visit  to  the  famous  Wasserblase, 
less  than  two  miles  distant,  already  figured  in  his  morning 
program;  so  he  did  not  delay  to  answer: 

‘ ‘ I shall  esteem  it  a great  honor.  Allow  me  to  look  at  this 
map.” 

If  his  eyes  had  not  been  intent  on  the  fluttering  sheet,  he 
would  have  seen  the  color  suddenly  forsake  her  face,  and  then 
rush  back  again  with  two-fold  radiance.  She  believed  that 
he  had  broken  his  other  plans  for  her  and  that  henceforth 
all  his  comings  and  goings  would  be  her  comings  and  goings 
too.  But  what  made  the  sunbeams  dance  most  brightly  in  her 
blue  eyes  was  the  prospect  of  wandering  off  with  him  this  very 


344 


THE  HARE 


moment  through  pensive  woods  and  beside  rejoicing  waters. 

As  soon  as  their  feet  began  to  tread  the  soft  carpet  of  pine- 
needles  she  said  gaily:  “You  must  never  be  shocked  with  me. 
Remember  I am  an  actress.  I say  just  what  comes  into  my 
mind,  without  stopping  to  think,  like  the  correct  young  ladies. 
You  are  not  shocked  that  I asked  you  to  show  me  the  water- 
fall?” 

“It  is  a great  honor,”  said  Harry  again. 

“No,  no.  Don’t  talk  like  that,  please,  Herr  Englischman. 
See,  I have  spoken  to  you  naturally  and,  you  answer  me  like  a 
book.  Why  will  you  not  be  natural  too  ? You  let  me  talk  all 
the  time.  You  tell  me  nothing  about  England,  about  your- 
self. I told  you  my  name.  What  is  your  name,  Herr  Eng- 
lischman? I have  heard  every  Englischman  is  named  John 
— our  Hans,  our  Johannes. — You  are  John?” 

Harry  shyly  replied  that  he  was  named  Henry  and  added 
that  for  hundreds  of  years  the  English,  in  a rough-and- 
ready  attempt  to  imitate  the  French  pronunciation  of  the 
name  Henri,  had  been  accustomed  to  turn  Henry  into  Harry. 

“Ah,”  she  murmured.  “How  terrible.  I have  heard,  of 
an  English  Heinrich,  an  English  Henry.  He  had  six  wives 
and  he  robbed  the  church.  You  must  try  to  be  very  good, 
Meester  Harri,  to  make  up  for  that  bad  one.” 

She  gave  him  several  openings  for  conversation,  but  he 
failed  her  every  time.  At  last,  when  he  received  silently  her 
comments  upon  certain  famous  Italian  singers  who  were  at 
that  time  the  idols  of  London  opera-goers,  Christina  realized 
how  terribly  shy  the  young  man  was  in  her  company  and  she 
cheerfully  took  up  the  whole  burden  of  the  talking.  It  oc- 
curred to  her  that  he  might  have  misunderstood  her  remark 
about  the  freedom  of  actresses;  and  therefore  she  chose  her 
remarks  and  reminiscences  in  such  a manner  as  to  leave  him 
in  no  doubt  concerning  the  soundness  of  her  moral  principles 
and  the  exceptional  immunities  of  her  position  in  Vienna. 


THE  RAVEN  345 

She  even  went  so  far  as  to  tell  him  that  she  had  decided  in 
church,  only  that  very  morning,  to  leave  the  stage. 

“But  if  you  leave  the  stage — ” Harry  began.  He  could 
not  finish. 

“You  mean,  I shall  starve.  Well,  not  exactly.  My  parents 
did  not  leave  me  quite  a beggar.  ’ ’ 

Fraulein  Rabe  felt  that  she  was  doing  her  whole  duty  by  the 
Englishman.  In  the  correct  circles  which  she  had  known,  a 
maiden  was  expected  to  bring  her  husband  an  unblemished 
reputation  and  a suitable  sum  of  money.  As  there  was  nobody 
else  to  put  his  mind  at  ease  on  these  two  points,  she  was  deli- 
cately reassuring  him  herself.  She  had  never  heard  that 
in  England  penniless  maidens,  by  the  thousand  every  year, 
made  love-matches  with  which  every  one  was  satisfied.  At 
that  moment  the  Raven’s  fixed  idea  was  to  sweep  all  artificial 
obstacles  away  from  the  man  whom  she  believed  to  be  her  sud- 
denly-revealed destiny.  She  was  sure  that  Harry’s  bashful- 
ness was  accompanied  by  swiftness  of  perception;  and  she 
flattered  herself  that  she  had  given  herself  the  necessary  tes- 
timonials without  losing  any  of  her  dignity  and  modesty.  Yet, 
when  the  silence  lengthened,  she  did  not  like  to  think  that 
her  last  words  had  been  about  money : so  she  added  proudly : 

“Besides,  when  I do  what  He  tells  me  in  church,  it  is  for 
the  good  God  to  look  after  me.” 

The  low  hum  of  hidden  waters  which  had  boomed  in  their 
ears  all  the  way,  became  more  full  and  loud.  The  path  de^- 
scended  in  steep  zig-zags.  Soon  the  deep  undersong  began 
to  be  embroidered  with  a descant  of  tinklings  and  lappings 
and  splashings.  A shaft  of  sunlight  drove  through  the  tree- 
tops  and  the  cascade  shone  straight  in  front  of  them  like  a 
living  diamond. 

After  rain  the  Wasserblase,  or  Bubble,  deserved  its  renown. 
It  was  a great  rounded  apron  of  crystal  waters  falling  in  front 
of  a cavern.  The  floor  of  the  cavern  was  filled  by  a deep  cold 


346 


THE  HARE 


pool  of  sucking  eddies,  but  there  was  a flat  boulder  where  two 
persons  could  stand,  with  the  moist  walls  and  roof  over  and 
behind  them  and  with  the  curtain  of  water,  as  thin  as  window- 
glass  and  almost  as  transparent,  renewing  itself  endlessly  in 
front.  As  Christina  and  Harry  approached  it,  the  wonder 
was  made  more  wondrous  by  a little  rainbow,  shapely  and 
lovely,  glittering  and  quivering  in  a spray  as  fine  as  dust. 

Fifteen  months  of  sight-seeing  had  not  cloyed  Harry’s  ap- 
petite for  beauty.  As  for  Christina,  moving  water  was  her 
chief  delight.  Pounding  surf,  dancing  waves,  racing  brooks, 
tumbling  cataracts  all  fascinated  her.  Having  agreed  upon 
the  best  view-point  the  two  young  people  stood  silently  for  a 
long  time  gazing  at  the  bubble  which  would  not  burst  and  lis- 
tening to  the  deep  voice  of  the  torrent. 

This  summer  morning  was  the  most  glorious  she  had  ever 
known.  For  some  moments  her  happiness  was  perfect.  Then 
she  began  to  yearn  for  Harry’s  voice  and  for  the  knowledge 
that  he  too  was  happy,  because  they  were  together,  just  they 
two,  under  an  unclouded  sky  and  on  the  brink  of  shining 
waters.  A desperate  plan  occurred  to  her.  She  was  almost 
irresistibly  tempted  to  turn  upon  him  and  say : 

1 ‘ I know  you  are  shy ; but  why  do  you  not  tell  me  that  you 
love  me?  Sooner  or  later  you  will  be  saying  those  words,  T 
love  you,  I love  you.’  Why  do  you  not  say  them  now? 
Life  is  so  short.  It  may  be  that  never  again  shall  we  stand 
side  by  side  on  such  a perfect  day  in  such  a perfect  place. 
Some  time  in  the  future  we  may  come  back  here  and  find  the 
stream  dry  or  the  path  drowned  in  rain.  Why  should  we 
lose  one  day,  one  moment  of  our  love?  Say  the  words  now. 
I shall  want  to  hear  them  thousands  of  times.  You  are  cruel 
to  cheat  me  of  them,  even  for  an  hour.” 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  pictured  him  listening  to  such 
words.  She  pictured  his  emotion,  his  maid-like  shyness  which 
was  so  delicious  to  her,  his  dear  stammering  of  “I  love  you.” 


THE  RAVEN 


34T 


That  he  did  love  her,  even  if  he  did  not  yet  know  it,  she  was 
sure.  At  her  challenge,  the  knowledge  would  come  to  his 
mind,  the  fire  to  his  heart,  the  words  to  his  lips.  He  would 
grow  bold  in  love.  He  would  adventure  a strong  arm  around 
her  waist,  she  would  lean  her  head  against  his  broad  shoulder, 
he  would  ...  No  ...  Yes  ..  . Perhaps  his  young  shyness 
would  vanish  utterly  and  he  would  crown  that  divine  minute 
with  kisses. 

But  Christina  did  not  speak.  With  an  angry  little  blush  at 
having  briefly  forgotten  the  decorum  which  Harry  would  ex- 
pect of  a young  lady,  she  said  abruptly : 

“Let  us  go  inside  the  Bubble.  I have  nerves  of  steel.  They 
say  it  is  only  dangerous  to  careless  or  clumsy  people.  ’ ’ 

She  led  the  way.  A mossy  path  ran  into  one  side  of  the 
cavern.  Where  the  path  ended,  a plank  with  a handrail 
bridged  six  feet  of  gurgling  water  and  gave  access  to  some 
stepping-stones.  The  furthest  and  largest  of  these  stones  rose 
from  the  very  center  of  the  pool  and  in  the  loftiest  part  of 
the  cavern.  It  was  just  large  enough  to  hold  two  persons 
standing  closely  together. 

The  Raven  had  to  be  so  intent  on  her  movements  that  when 
she  found  herself  clinging  tightly  to  Harry’s  arm  she  could 
not  remember  whether  she  had  involuntarily  claimed  this  sup- 
port or  whether  he  had  offered  it.  All  she  felt  sure  of  was  the 
wonderful  peace  and  comfort  which  his  nearness  gave  her. 
There  was  something  rock-like  in  the  frame  of  this  gentle 
youth.  Many  women  had  impulsively  embraced  her  and  she 
had  been  paternally  caressed  by  more  than  one  of  her  respect- 
ful old  foster-fathers : but  never  had  she  suspected  that  there 
could  be  in  the  world  such  a tower  for  her  ivy-like  spirit  to 
cling  to.  Before  going  to  church,  Harry  had  plunged  that 
morning  into  an  icy  pool.  He  was  as  sweet  as  a flower,  as 
sturdy  as  an  oak.  Anxiety  for  her  safety  so  overcame  his 
bashfulness  that  he  not  only  lent  his  arm  for  her  two  hands 


348 


THE  HARE 


to  grip,  but  even  held  her  firmly  against  his  shoulders. 

In  front  of  them  hung  the  Bubble.  They  were  in  a stone 
box  with  a glass  lid.  The  projecting  eaves  of  the  cave  threw 
out  the  water  in  a clear  curve — the  curve  of  a glass  shade  over 
a gilded  French  clock.  They  stood  so  far  behind  the  crystal 
curtain  that  not  a drop  of  water  touched  them. 

“If  it  began  to  rain,”  said  (Christina,  “we  could  not  get 
wet.  How  strange  to  think  that  we  should  be  shielded  by  an 
umbrella  made  of  water.” 

“It  is,”  Coggin  agreed.  At  the  same  moment  such  ani- 
mation came  into  his  face  that  she  demanded : 

‘ 4 What  are  you  thinking  about  ? ’ ’ 

“No  doubt  you  have  read  the  works  of  Jean  Paul  Richter,” 
he  answered  modestly.  “Do  you  remember  the  simile  of  the 
waterfall?  He  imagines  a man  sheltering  from  the  rain  be- 
hind a cataract  like  this ; and  he  goes  on  to  say  that  one  great 
sorrow  protects  us  from  many  little  ones.  Little,  troubles, 
which  would  be  enough  at  other  times  to  rob  us  of  our  peace, 
cannot  strike  through  a great  sorrow.  ’ ’ 

Harry  spoke  quietly,  with  no  parade  of  book-learning. 
His  fine  musical  sensitiveness  made  him  unconsciously  pitch 
his  voice  in  unison  with  the  noble  diapason  of  the  cataract,  so 
that  it  was  richer  and  more  moving  than  before.  His  tones 
and  his  meaning  thrilled  Christina  all  over.  Without  knowing 
it,  she  shrank  more  trustfully  against  his  side.  But  once  more 
that  mystical  knowledge  of  her  future,  which  had  been  vouch- 
safed to  her  at  Mass,  surged  up  in  her  mind.  She  breasted  it 
bravely.  An  immeasurable  sorrow  was  to  fling  a chill  veil 
between  her  weeping  eyes  and  all  human  joy — a veil  as  chill 
as  this  Bubble,  wdiich  only  the  sunset  beams  of  Death  should 
rend  asunder.  Yet  she  was  not  afraid,  not  rebellious,  not 
even  unhappy.  She  had  seen  so  many  women  growing  sordid 
and  fretful  under  the  constant  drizzling  and  pattering  of  mean 
little  cares — cares  of  money,  cares  of  meat  and  drink,  cares 


THE  RAVEN 


349 


of  tittle-tattle,  cares  of  small  aches  and  pains.  But  God  most 
merciful  had  appointed  for  her  some  majestical  grief,  which 
should  arch  like  a crystal  dome  over  her  soul. 

When  she  could  speak,  she  said:  “No,  I have  never  read 
Jean  Paul.  Did  he  say  anything  else  as  beautiful  as  that?” 

Harry  considered  for  a while.  Then  he  replied:  “Yes. 
Jean  Paul  said  that  when  we  die  perhaps  we  shall  find  that  we 
have  not  lost  our  dreams  but  that  we  have  only  lost  our 
sleep.” 

Once  again  he  had  tuned  his  voice  to  the  music  of  the  waters. 
When  he  ceased,  the  cataract  sang  on,  as  if  Harry  w^as  still 
uttering  his  inmost  soul  in  cadences  too  sacred  for  mere  words. 
Christina  opened  her  eyes  and  tried  to  behold  the  outer  world 
through  the  swaying  Bubble.  She  could  discern  a pinnacle 
of  rock,  an  overhanging  tree,  a wrack  of  foam  upon  a boulder. 
But  the  world  of  every  day  seemed  infinitely  withdrawn,  as 
if  never  again  would  she  move  and  breathe  in  it.  God  had 
claimed  her  already:  and  she  knew  in  that  strange  moment 
that  His  will  would  be  done  in  her  soon,  very  soon. 

Harry’s  tongue  was  loosened  on  the  way  home.  A remark 
of  Christina’s  about  Jean  Paul  worked  the  miracle.  Not 
that  he  ever  let  himself  go  to  the  extent  of  a long  speech. 
Again  and  again  he  stopped,  feeling  ashamed  of  talking  so 
much  and  listening  so  little ; but  by  some  well-timed  question 
the  Raven  always  contrived  to  set  him  going  once  more.  The 
girl  had  expected  a great  deal,  but  his  fine  sense  and  vast 
knowledge  overwhelmed  her.  He  carried  his  learning  not  like 
a poor  ass  staggering  under  a swaying,  ill-piled  burden  but 
like  a richly-caparisoned  horse  bearing  a knight  in  silver  mail. 
His  facts  came  forth  like  bright  swords  from  their  scabbards, 
not  like  old  iron  from  a museum,  and  his  judgments  were  as 
honest  and  life-giving  as  the  sun  in  the  sky.  Christina’s 
breast  swelled  with  pride.  In  the  German  phrase  this  was 


350 


THE  HARE 


“her  man,”  and  was  a man  indeed;  an  athlete,  a saint,  a gen- 
tleman, a scholar,  a genius,  a poet.  It  salved  her  pride  to 
know  that  she  had  not  fallen  senselessly  in  love  with  merely 
a well-knit  frame  and  a handsome,  pensive  face.  Her  man 
was  everything,  except  a gallant  lover;  and  that  would  come. 

When  her  scanty  store  of  literary  erudition  ran  out,  Chris- 
tina started  a new  phase  of  conversation  by  asking  Harry  for 
some  impressions  of  Prussia  and  the  Rhineland,  Bavaria  and 
Austria.  When  he  showed  signs  of  lagging,  she  interrogated 
him  about  Cologne  cathedral  and  especially  about  its  resem- 
blance to  the  votive  church  which  was  being  built  in  Vienna, 
in  thanksgiving  for  the  Emperor  Francis  Joseph’s  escape  from 
the  dagger  of  an  assassin. 

“Tour  votive  church,”  Harry  began,  “might  have  been  bet- 
ter if — ” 

Anna  rose  up  like  the  Witch  of  Endor,  full  in  their  path. 
She  had  been  squatting  impatiently  on  a tree-stump.  With- 
out wasting  breath  on  any  formula  of  respect  she  turned  her 
mistress  slowly  round  expecting  to  find  her  stained  with  mud 
of  the  path  and  drenched  with  the  spray  of  the  Wasserblase. 
A grunt  expressed  her  surprise ; but  she  was  not  entirely  stulti- 
fied. A little  rust  from  the  wall  of  the  cave  could  be  seen  on 
Fraulein  Rabe’s  left  sleeve  and  a bramble  had  torn  a hat 
ribbon.  Anna  unfolded  a flowered  wrap,  as  thin  as  gossamer, 
shook  it  twice,  and  then  draped  it  prettily  over  the  young 
lady’s  shoulders.  Finally  she  produced  a garden  hat  to  match 
the  wrap. 

When  the  tom  hat  had  been  removed,,  Christina  stood  de- 
murely with  the  noonday  sun  flashing  about  her  wonderful 
black  hair.  Coggin  had  beheld,  within  twenty-four  hours, 
the  blaze  of  the  sun  on  the  eternal  snow  and  on  a headlong 
cataract:  but  the  sun’s  dalliance  with  these  blue-black  tresses 
was  the  most  wonderful  sight  of  all.  He  could  not  entirely 
repress  a rush  of  admiration.  Anna  saw  it  and  grunted 


THE  RAVEN 


351 


again.  Christina  saw  it  too : but  she  gave  no  sign  of  triumph. 
She  simply  waited,  like  a very  good  and  artless  little  girl, 
for  Anna  to  put  on  the  other  hat  and  to  tie  the  ribbon  under 
the  dutifully-uplifted  little  chin. 

Without  uttering  a word  to  anybody,  Anna  made  the  young 
Englishman  understand  that  she  did  not  approve  of  his  further 
escort  at  that  moment  and  that  her  mistress  must  appear  at  the 
door  of  the  inn  in  no  company  save  her  maid’s.  Christina, 
who  suddenly  felt  a shyness  of  a kind  quite  new  to  her, 
tacitly  conveyed  the  same  hint;  and  Harry,  with  perceptions 
quickened  by  his  morning  in  feminine  society,  saw  what  was 
meant  and  asked  leave  to  turn  aside  for  a purchase  in  the  one 
shop  of  the  village. 

Anna’s  precautions  were  vain.  Down  a side-path  came  his 
fellow-guests  and  fellow-Englishry,  the  thin  lady  and  the 
plump  gentleman  from  the  inn.  They  emerged  from  the  trees 
just  in  time  to  witness  Harry’s  rather  awkward  leave-taking 
and  to  see  Christina  turn  to  give  a farewell  wave  of  her  tiny 
hand.  Like  Harry,  they  were  on  their  way  to  the  shop  and 
they  overtook  him  there.  To  his  astonishment  and  vexation, 
when  he  left  the  shop  after  buying  a ridiculously  small  ice-ax 
for  Edward  Redding,  the  lady  hastened  her  step  and  joined 
him.  She  had  evidently  become  as  anxious  to  talk  with  him 
as  she  had  been  to  avoid  him.  After  some  stiff -jointed  com- 
pliments on  his  piano-playing  and  his  command  of  the  Ger- 
man language,  the  lady  began  to  expatiate  on  the  short-com- 
ings of  the  inn.  Why  had  they  not  once  had  chamois  to  eat 
in  four  days  ? Was  it  becoming  that  a clergyman  should  allow 
the  guides  to  smoke  pipes  in  the  lower  room  until  you  could  n’t 
see  a yard  in  front  of  you?  She  added  that  they  were  leav- 
ing the  next  day,  Saturday,  so  as  to  be  within  reach  of  an 
English  church  service.  4 ‘ Of  course  that  does  n ’t  affect 
you,”  she  concluded,  in  her  most  acid  tones,  “seeing  that  you 
are  a Roman  Catholic.” 


352 


THE  HARE 


* ‘ I am  not  a Roman  Catholic,  ’ ’ said  Harry. 

‘ ‘ Not  a Roman  Catholic  ? But  on  Tuesday  morning  I could 
not  help  seeing  you  bowing  down  in  the  church  just  like  the 
Catholics.  Why,  the  chambermaid  is  always  singing  your 
praises.  She  says  what  a saint  you  are,  going  every  day  to 
their  Mass.” 

‘‘I  can  only  repeat,  ma’am,  that  I am  not  a Roman  Cath- 
olic.” 

‘‘Then  you  must  excuse  me  if  I speak  my  mind,”  retorted 
the  lady  sharply.  ‘‘Some  matters  are  of  such  importance, 
such  infinite  and  everlasting  consequence,  that  we  must  not  be 
deterred  from  speaking  about  them  merely  through  fear  of 
being  thought  ill-bred  or  through  reluctance  to  give  offense. 
There  are  too  many  English  people  abroad  who  bow  down  in 
the  house  of  Rimmon.  When  the  poor  ignorant  peasantry 
grovel  before  a piece  of  bread  and  a glass  of  wine,  I do  not 
condemn  them.  God  will  judge  them  according  to  their 
lights,  or  rather  according  to  their  darkness.  It  is  the  priests 
I blame : not  the  wretched  dupes  whom  they  keep  enslaved  in 
degrading  superstition.  But  when  a young  gentleman  like 
yourself,  bred  and  nurtured  on  Protestant  truth,  kneels  down 
as  you  did  last  Tuesday,  you  must  excuse  my  saying  that  he  is 
an  idolater,  a sinful  idolater.  What  is  more,  he  is  a traitor. 
If  you  became  a Roman  Catholic  out-and-out  I should  pity 
you  but  I might  respect  you.  I dare  say  you  are  mortally 
offended : but  I have  done  my  duty.  ’ ’ 

Much  as  he  disliked  the  censorious  shrewishness  of  her 
manner  Harry  could  not  altogether  resent  the  matter  of  the 
lady’s  tirade.  He  was  painfully  aware  of  his  false  position 
in  religion.  Indeed  the  desire  to  settle  it  one  way  or  another 
was  one  of  the  chief  elements  in  his  longing  to  return  to 
England.  He  had  resolved,  nearly  a year  before,  to  keep  his 
ecclesiastical  opinions  fluid  until  he  was  back  in  his  own  coun- 
try. For  the  present  he  would  accept  rebuke  without  arguing 


THE  RAVEN 


353 


back : but  next  month,  on  the  second  of  September,  only  fifteen 
days  from  now  . . . 

Harry's  heart  suddenly  shrank  within  him.  Only  fifteen 
days!  A fortnight;  and  then  Germany  would  be  a finished 
chapter  in  his  book  of  life.  Only  a month  before,  he  had  been 
counting  the  days  of  his  exile  and  he  had  pleaded  with  Edward 
Redding  to  shorten  them.  Now  he  felt  an  ache,  a sickening, 
almost  a terror.  No  doubt,  he  reflected,  this  was  the  spell  of 
the  mountains,  which  he  had  read  about  so  often.  And  yet,  if 
he  had  demanded  of  himself  at  that  moment  how  the  spell  was 
working,  he  would  have  known  that  it  was  not  a white  sharp 
mountain-peak  that  had  impaled  his  heart.  He  would  have 
known  that  his  fancy  lingered  under  the  cool  branches  of  a 
pine-wood,  with  never  a mountain  to  be  seen,  gazing  at  the 
sunshine  playing  hide-and  seek  in  the  glossy  wings  of  a blue- 
black  raven. 

The  thin  Englishwoman  interpreted  Harry's  evident  trouble 
and  his  long  speechlessness  as  proofs  that  the  first  part  of  her 
sermon  had  gone  home : so  she  turned  to  Secondly. 

“Although  advice  in  the  matter  of  the  affections  is  almost 
invariably  disregarded,"  she  said,  “I  am  not  thereby  released 
from  the  obligation  to  offer  it.  I have  discharged  one  unpleas- 
ant duty.  Permit  me  to  discharge  another  ; and  pray  acquit 
me  of  intrusiveness.  I am  thinking  not  only  of  yourself,  but 
of  your  mother,  your  family.  Nobody  hates  gossip  more  than 
I do  and  nobody  has  a greater  detestation  of  becoming  involved 
in  the  affairs  of  others.  But  what  is  going  on  around  me  is 
so  glaring  that  even  my  slow  eyes  and  preoccupied  mind  can 
no  longer  ignore  it.  It  grieves  my  husband  and  myself  to  see 
you  drifting  into  an  entanglement  which  can  bring  you  noth- 
ing but  bitterness  and  regret.  Heed  this  earnest  and  friendly 
warning  while  there  is  time.  I know  what  I am  talking  about. 
I am  older  than  you  are." 

As  to  the  lady 's  seniority  there  could  be  no  dispute : but  as 


354 


THE  HARE 


to  the  meaning  of  her  long  and  stilted  speech  Harry  Coggin 
could  not  frame  a guess.  Did  it  refer  to  some  further  and  un- 
suspected ecclesiastical  impropriety  on  his  part?  Having  no 
clear  notion  of  the  business  in  hand  he  simply  prolonged  his 
dumbness. 

“Perhaps  you  are  not  fully  acquainted  with  the  identity 
and  antecedents  of  ...  of  this  young  person,”  the  lady  con- 
tinued. “We  have  ascertained  that  she  is  an  actress.  Not  an 
exponent  of  the  legitimate  drama,  but  an  employee  in  one  of 
those  less  reputable  places  of  so-called  amusement  which  pan- 
der to  the  frivolity  and  levity  of  the  giddy  and  the  thoughtless. 
I grant  that  she  is  not  entirely  without  attraction  of  person 
and  manner  of  the  kinds  which  appeal  to  certain  people : and 
this  attractiveness  only  makes  her  the  more  dangerous.  To 
every  eye  except  your  own  it  is  indisputable  that  this  young 
woman  is  determined  to  entrap  you.  That  is  the  reason  why 
we  urge  you  to  leave  this  inn  and  to  complete  your  vacation  in 
some  less  unsatisfactory  establishment.  ’ ’ 

Harry  came  to  a halt.  At  first  the  lady’s  full  meaning  did 
not  clarify  itself  from  her  turgid  polysyllables.  He  looked 
the  pair  up  and  down ; and  into  his  mind  came  a sentence  from 
his  “Murray’s  Handbook”  in  which  the  writer  lamented  that 
he  had  “almost  invariably  met  with  the  kindest  reception  in 
those  places  where  his  countrymen  were  least  known.”  He 
remembered  Edward  Redding’s  warning  also.  The  lady  was 
like  a skeleton  in  a parchment  bag  while  the  husband,  whose 
climb  had  over-exerted  him,  seemed  to  have  been  poured  into 
his  clothes  in  a liquid  state,  like  a pudding  tied  tightly  in  a 
cloth  for  boiling. 

“I  endorse  every  word  my  wife  has  uttered,”  said  the 
husband,  stepping  forward.  * ‘ I am  a man  of  the  world.  Take 
our  advice.  Why,  my  wife’s  own  second  cousin,  the  younger 
son  of  Sir  William  Lee,  became  entangled  with  a designing 
young  female  of  this  very  class  and — ’’ 


I 


THE  RAVEN  355 

Harry  swept  the  puffing  moralist  out  of  his  path.  The  look 
on  his  face  was  so  terrible  that  the  man  of  the  world  dodged 
frantically  to  the  shelter  of  skirts.  It  suddenly  occurred  to 
the  fat  Robert  that  this  was  the  stalwart  mountaineer  who 
had  already  pitched  one  insulter  of  Fraulein  Rabe  out  of  the 
window.  Henry  Coggin,  however,  controlled  himself  by  a 
mighty  effort.  He  recalled  his  first  encounter  with  these 
people,  at  the  supper  table,  and  the  exact  words  of  their 
frigid  snub.  Sharpening  and  hardening  his  voice  till  it  could 
have  struck  sparks  out  of  the  lady’s  own,  he  said  with  cut- 
ting scorn : 

“My  answer  shall  be  the  answer  you  gave  me  when  I tried 
to  help  you  on  the  night  of  your  arrival  here.  Sir,  I do  not 
need  any  information  or  assistance.  ’ ’ 

Pushing  past  the  still  panic-stricken  man  of  the  world, 
Harry  sped  down  the  narrow  path  with  long  strides.  In  five 
minutes  the  beauty  of  the  earth  had  been  turned  to  ashes,  the 
glorious  sunshine  to  a torrid  glare,  the  sweet  breeze  to  a dusty 
wind.  Ought  he  not  to  go  away  this  very  afternoon  and  thus 
protect  Christina  from  new  slanders?  No.  Flight  would  be 
taken  to  mean  that  he  had  accepted  the  thin  lady ’s  advice,  and 
the  shrew  was  even  capable  of  telling  the  chambermaid  that  he 
had  run  away  from  the  attentions  of  Fraulein  Rabe.  The 
English  couple  were  leaving  themselves  in  twenty-four  hours. 
They  had  said  so.  Till  they  were  gone,  he  must  stay,  as 
Christina’s  champion.  More  than  once  as  he  hurried  along  he 
swung  the  little  ax  angrily  in  the  air. 

The  Raven  fluttered  through  the  garden  gate  to  meet  him. 
Anna  was  upstairs. 

“What  have  you  in  your  hand?”  Christina  demanded. 
“You  came  down  through  the  rocks  like  a young  god  with 
blinding  lights  shining  round  your  head.” 

“It  must  have  been  the  new  blade  of  this  ax  flashing  back 
the  sunlight,  ’ ’ said  Harry,  blushing  in  the  manner  she  adored. 


356  THE  HARE 

He  was  like  Samson’s  riddle;  as  strong  as  a lion,  as  sweet  as 
honey. 

She  took  the  ax  from  him.  When  he  explained  that  it  was  far 
too  small  to  use,  and  that  he  had  bought  it  only  as  a souvenir 
she  exclaimed  eagerly : ‘ ‘ Then  give  it  to  me ! Dear  little  bright 
ax,  poor  little  ax.  Please,  please  Herr  Harri,  give  it  to  me.” 

He  gave  it  to  her  instantly,  though  not  without  a spasm  of 
regret  that  he  had  missed  his  chance  of  frightening  the  man 
of  the  world  almost  out  of  his  life  with  it.  Never  for  a 
moment  had  he  doubted  this  merry,  clear-eyed,  open-hearted 
girl’s  innocence;  but  as  she  played  with  the  little  ax  like  a 
child  with  a new  toy,  his  heart  grew  hot  with  wrath  against  the 
man  of  the  world  and  his  bitter  consort. 

All  through  dinner,  Christina  nursed  the  ax  in  her  lap. 
When  Anna  sought  to  take  it  away,  she  clutched  it  as  a little 
girl  clutches  her  doll  at  bed-time  and  would  not  be  parted  from 
it.  Owing  to  further  departures  of  guests,  she  no  longer  sat 
opposite  to  Harry  who  was  now  faced  by  a heavy  hausfrau 
from  Augsburg.  As  for  the  man  and  the  woman  of  the  world, 
they  said  nothing  and  thus  gained  some  precious  moments  for 
consuming  even  more  than  usual  of  the  good  fare  set  before 
them. 

The  meal  came  to  an  end,  but  Christina  was  not  allowed 
to  abandon  the  role  of  a little  girl.  Anna  dragged  her  off, 
still  fondling  the  toy  ax,  to  her  room  and  to  bed.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  Anna’s  memory  that  her  mistress  had  got  up  at 
five  in  the  morning  and  she  saw  signs  of  fatigue  which  called 
for  treatment.  Within  half  an  hour  the  poor  Raven,  tired 
and  happy,  fell  asleep. 

When  she  came  downstairs  again,  the  house  was  already 
odorous  with  preparations  for  supper.  To  regain  her  appetite 
Christina  walked  out  into  the  road.  There  she  ran  against 
Harry,  in  deep  consultation  with  a towering  peasant  whom 
she  recognized  as  the  most  famous  guide  in  the  valley.  The 


THE  RAVEN 


357 


giant  *s  voice  was  loud  and  she  could  not  help  hearing  him  say : 

* i Then  six  o’clock  to-morrow,  mein  Herr,  after  the  Mass.” 

Indignation  flamed  up  in  her  heart.  The  next  day  was  Sat- 
urday and  Harry  had  said  that  he  was  leaving  the  village  on 
Sunday  afternoon.  So  she  had  fooled  herself  after  all.  He 
cared  so  little  for  her  that  his  last  day  was  to  be  spent  miles 
away  from  her.  What  she  had  believed  to  be  the  firm  begin- 
ning of  a divine  romance  was  to  him  only  just  one  more  of 
the  chance  meetings  and  passing  acquaintanceships  of  tourist 
life.  Her  high  and  solemn  visions  in  the  church  and  at  the 
waterfall  were  silly  hallucinations,  born  of  the  intoxicating 
mountain  air.  In  the  sharp  reaction  from  her  mystic  rapture 
she  could  almost  have  cried  out  to  him  that  he  was  a booby  and 
a churl. 

The  Angelus  began  to  sound  from  the  belfry  close  at  hand. 
Instantly  the  guide,  who  had  unfolded  a map,  stopped  talking 
and  uncovered  his  head.  Harry  did  the  same.  For  a second 
or  two,  Christina  was  on  the  verge  of  revolt  against  Heaven  and 
all  things  heavenly : but  grace  was  given  to  her  and  she  bowed 
her  head  like  the  others.  Before  the  bell  ceased  ringing  she 
knew  that  her  visions  were  not  delusions.  Harry ’s  conduct 
might  still  be  a mystery  and  an  anguish : but  all  the  same  he 
was  the  only  man  she  would  ever  love. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  he  had  probably  arranged  this  big 
climb  some  days  before  and  that,  as  he  was  not  due  in  London 
for  another  fortnight,  he  would  almost  certainly  postpone  his 
departure  from  the  inn.  The  burden  rolled  from  her  soul,  she 
darted  back  into  the  house,  leapt  upstairs  and  panted  to 
Anna: 

“Last  night  I wore  my  wine-colored  dress  with  cream  roses. 
To-night  I shall  wear  crimson  roses  and  my  pale  yellow  muslin. 
There  are  crimson  roses  in  this  bouquet  which  Herr  Fecht  has 
brought  me.  Quick,  Anna,  quick.  ” 

Although  they  were  yards  apart  at  the  supper-table,  Chris- 


I 


358  THE  HARE 

tina’s  clever  eyes  cauglit  peeps  of  Harry  now  and  then.  She 
knew  that  he  looked  at  her  again  and  again  and  she  was  sat- 
isfied. The  persuasion  that  the  crisis  in  her  life  had  come, 
and  that  she  would  never  tread  the  stage  again,  had  become 
absolute.  Moreover,  as  she  nursed  the  ax,  his  gift,  in  her  lap 
she  suddenly  formed  a plan — a daring  plan  which  should  turn 
his  unfaithfulness  on  the  morrow  to  good  account. 

When  Herr  Fecht  desired  to  conduct  her  to  the  salon  after 
supper,  for  another  recital  of  music,  the  beauty  surprised  him 
by  a refusal.  “In  Vienna/ 9 she  said  merrily,  “I  am  a raven, 
a night-bird.  Here,  on  my  holiday,  I am  a lark.  This  morn- 
ing I rose  with  the  sun  and  I want  to  do  it  again  to-morrow. 
Dear  Herr  Doctor,  excuse  me.  You  shall  have  plenty  of  music 
from  our  genius,  our  Englischman. ’ ’ 

Harry  was  waiting  near.  She  cried  out  gaily,  “Good- 
night, Herr  Harri,”  and  ran  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  IV 


CHRISTINA’S  instinct,  next  morning,  was  to  hear  Mass 
from  the  darkest  corner  of  the  church,  unseen  by 
Harry.  Her  new  plan,  however,  required  that  she 
should  renounce  conventional  coyness:  so  she  went  forward 
once  more  to  a front  prie-dieu.  Kneeling  there,  her  revela- 
tions were  renewed,  with  a solemn  addition.  She  became  sure 
that  her  mysterious  union  with  Harry  was  near,  very  near  at 
hand,  and  that  she  would  not  see  even  one  more  of  the  old, 
light-hearted,  careless  days.  At  first  this  certainty  chilled 
and  shadowed  her : but  forebodings  vanished  as  she  stood  up 
for  the  last  Gospel  and  calm  happiness  came  in  their  stead. 
The  instant  Mass  was  finished  she  hastened  back  to  the  inn. 

This  morning  there  was  to  be  no  leisurely  breakfast  in  the 
garden.  Anna  had  forbidden  it,  and  it  was  unlikely  that 
Harry  would  have  time  for  it.  Perhaps  to-morrow  morn- 
ing— But  no,  she  could  not  picture  to-morrow.  To-day  rose 
up  before  her  like  a mountain  rampart,  shutting  away  all  the 
tracts  beyond. 

Harry  Coggin  had  not  lost  his  Bulford  habit  of  eating  a good 
breakfast  when  it  came  his  way.  A looker-on,  watching  his 
prowess  with  the  chocolate  and  milk,  the  butter  and  rye-bread, 
the  cold  veal  and  ham,  would  not  have  found  it  easy  to  re- 
gard him  as  the  central  figure  of  a romance.  Still  less  would 
Harry  have  seen  himself  in  that  light.  Although  the  Raven 
kept  perking  into  his  mind,  making  him  feel  yet  again  that  it 
would  be  pleasant  if  he  could  be  in  two  places  at  once,  his 
thoughts  were  mainly  bent  towards  the  coming  climb.  He  had 
persuaded  the  guide  to  pilot  him  up  an  arete  which  was  sel- 

359 


360 


THE  HARE 


dom  attempted,  an  ascent  which  only  the  very  tough  and  the 
very  agile  could  contemplate. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  road  a few  minutes  before  six.  A 
moment  afterwards  Christina  emerged  from  the  garden  gate, 
a little  lower  down.  Having  seen  her  at  church,  he  was  not 
greatly  surprised  to  encounter  her  again.  Then  it  flashed 
upon  him  that  perhaps  she  was  graciously  intending  to  invite 
him  once  more  to  an  open-air  breakfast.  He  hurried  forward 
to  excuse  himself  and  to  explain. 

4 'You  are  not  asked/ ’ she  retorted,  before  his  speech  was 
fairly  begun.  "Do  you  think  I have  nothing  better  to  do 
with  my  mornings  than  sit  over  coffee-cups  with  English- 
men? Anna  is  taking  my  coffee  upstairs.  You  are  conceited, 
Herr  Harri.  You  imagine  nobody  can  climb  mountains  ex- 
cept yourself.  ’ ’ 

She  rounded  off  this  rejoinder  by  deftly  swinging  round 
her  head  the  ax,  which  she  had  been  hiding  behind  her  back. 
The  gesture  brought  all  her  limbs  into  play  and  then  Harry 
noticed  the  dress  she  was  wearing.  From  the  pout  which 
pursed  her  lips  he  saw  that  she  was  vexed  with  him  for  not 
having  remarked  upon  it  with  his  first  breath  of  greeting. 

Except  with  her  two  marvelous  toilettes  of  the  two  preceding 
evenings,  the  wine-colored  and  the  pale  yellow,  Fraulein  Rabe 
had  not  once  appeared  in  the  hoops  or  crinolines  which  had 
been  so  long  in  fashion.  Sensitive  to  a change  of  mode  which 
had  already  begun  to  show  itself  in  Vienna,  she  preferred  to 
wear  far  less  voluminous  and  far  more  graceful  garments. 
Her  skirts  were  not  the  least  of  her  sins  in  the  eyes  of  the  thin 
Englishwoman.  This  morning,  however,  she  had  renounced 
the  fashion  entirely  and  was  arrayed  like  a Tyrolese  peasant- 
girl.  Her  high-waisted  dress  and  pointed  hat  and  pretty 
stockings  were  of  finer  material  than  the  village-lasses  could 
or  would  have  purchased,  but  the  cut  and  hang  were  the 
same. 


THE  RAVEN 


361 


Henry  Coggin  ought  to  have  been  reminded  by  this  charm- 
ing sight  of  the  highland  maidens  he  had  seen  on  the  pre- 
ceding Tuesday  night  at  the  Assumption  dance;  but  he 
remembered  nothing  of  the  kind.  His  thoughts  leapt  back 
not  to  a scented  pine-wood  with  two  fiddles  and  a guitar 
squeaking  and  thrumming  a country  dance  but  to  a stuffy 
opera-house,  overfilled  with  the  loud  music  of  an  orchestra 
playing  prestissimo  and  fortissimo.  As  Christina  balanced 
herself  coquettishly  on  her  dainty  toes  and  swung  the  imprac- 
ticable ax  like  a theatrical  property,  Harry  could  almost  sniff 
the  gas-fumes,  he  could  almost  hear  the  shrill  violin  and  the 
pounding  drums,  while  canvas  mountains  and  painted  trees 
seemed  to  rise  up  a few  feet  behind  Christina’s  graceful  and 
unrustic  form.  Her  pirouette  was  all  unconscious,  but  she  was 
an  actress  bred  and  bom. 

“You  think  I look  a fright?”  she  said.  “No,  no,  poor 
Englischman,  don’t  try  to  pay  me  compliments.  You  are  not 
used  to  it.  You  would  hurt  yourself.  Besides,  what  do  I 
care  how  I look?  When  one  goes  climbing  high  mountains 
one  doesn ’t  wear  a ball-dress,  ’ ’ 

Harry  took  alarm.  To  conduct  a healthy,  hardy,  hoopless 
young  lady  to  the  Wasserblase  was  one  thing;  to  haul  her  up 
precipices  was  another.  He  glanced  at  her  tiny  feet,  a 
dancer ’s  feet  hardly  bigger  than  two  brown  mice,  and  thought 
of  the  crampons  the  guide  would  bring.  He  thought  of  ugly 
gauze  over  those  violet  eyes.  Then  his  mind  swung  right 
round  and  began  to  work  furiously.  After  all,  he  was  not 
bound  to  carry  out  his  ambitious  and  perhaps  selfish  plan  of 
driving  a guide  up  the  most  exhausting  and  perilous  ascent 
in  that  part  of  the  Tyrol.  It  was  true,  that,  after  making 
preparations  and  announcing  their  intentions,  the  guide  might 
feel  aggrieved  if  the  expedition  were  abandoned : but  the  man 
would  have  his  hire  just  the  same  and  could  put  the  blame  on 
Harry’s  fickleness  or  timidity.  Yes.  It  would  be  best  to 


362 


THE  HARE 


drop  heroics  and  to  enjoy  himself  temperately,  like  other  peo- 
ple. He  could  keep  the  guide  for  some  much  nearer  and  much 
easier  mountain ; a mountain  so  near  and  so  easy  that  even  a 
little  lady,  with  little  feet  and  a little  ax,  would  be  able  to  en- 
dure its  little  fatigues  and  little  dangers. 

Christina  divined  the  working  of  his  thoughts.  And,  skilled 
actress  though  she  was,  she  could  not  conceal  her  own  hope 
and  fear.  The  actress  died  out  of  her  and  only  the  love- 
hungry,  lonely  maid  was  left.  Her  eyes  pleaded:  “Why  do 
you  not  tell  me  that  you  will  not  go  away  to-morrow?  Why 
could  you  think  for  one  moment  of  leaving  me  to-day  ? When 
your  mind  is  so  fine  and  your  soul  is  so  noble,  how  can  your 
heart  be  so  hard  and  your  blood  so  cold  ? How  can  you,  a poet, 
a gentleman,  shame  me  and  humble  me  by  making  me  run 
after  you?  You  have  just  prayed,  and  I have  just  prayed, 
to  the  same  God.  You  know  He  has  made  us  one  for  another. 
You  are  cruel,  you  are  unfair.  If  I could  spare  one  moment 
from  loving  you,  I should  use  it  to  hate  you.” 

Harry,  even  Harry,  could  not  fail  to  see  that  the  violet  eyes 
were  brimming  with  some  passionate  longing,  some  desperate 
entreaty.  But  he  wTas  too  dull  and  too  humble  to  have  the 
faintest  suspicion  that  he,  the  rag-and-bone  man's  vagrant, 
inelegant,  tongue-tied  son,  could  ever  excite  in  this  brilliant 
and  famous  young  beauty  anything  more  than  a slight  and 
passing  interest.  None  the  less,  those  pleading  eyes  searched 
his  very  heart  until  they  brought  to  memory  a small  tragedy 
of  his  boyhood,  long  ago  enacted  and  long  ago  forgotten. 

Nearly  twenty  years  before,  when  he  was  a child  of  six,  he 
toddled  with  his  glum  father  on  some  mean  hunt  for  odds-and- 
ends.  In  the  back-yard  of  a great  house  he  waited  shyly  while 
his  father’s  querulous  tones  waged  a losing  battle  against  the 
sharp  scorn  of  the  cook.  As  he  hung  about  near  a high  black 
door  which  hid  from  him  the  glories  of  the  flower-garden  he 
heard  a light  scrambling  and  scuffling  and  a scratching  of  the 


THE  RAVEN 


363 


wood,  followed  by  a soft  and  pretty  cry.  Glancing  up  he 
saw  that  a magnificent  young  cat,  grandly  marked  like  a tiger, 
was  balancing  herself  on  the  top  of  the  door,  with  her  splendid 
tail  aloft  in  the  air.  Little  Harry,  who  had  never  fondled  dog 
or  cat  or  bird,  never  known  brother  or  sister  or  playmate, 
became  all  eyes.  He  watched  the  queenly  creature's  ivory 
claws  working  in  and  out  of  her  wooden  perch.  The  animal 
gave  another  low  cry,  and  jumped  down  into  the  yard.  With 
her  tail  still  aloft  she  pressed  against  the  child ’s  legs,  humped 
herself  small,  arched  her  back,  purred  like  a singing  kettle 
and  then  looked  up  at  him  with  great  round  eyes,  demanding 
a caress.  Giving  way  to  an  affectionate  instinct  which  had  not, 
at  that  time,  been  quite  cuffed  and  scolded  out  of  him,  little 
Harry  stooped  and  took  the  soft,  proud,  happy  creature  into 
his  gentle  arms.  Instantly  there  was  a scream  from  the  back- 
kitchen  door.  The  yard  seemed  to  fill  with  a flood  of  print 
dresses  and  white  aprons.  He  felt  his  father's  heavy  palm 
fall  angrily  on  his  ear  and  he  heard  himself  called  a dirty 
brat  and  an  impudent  little  varmint.  He  was  hustled  and 
flung  forth,  while  hands  not  so  clean  as  his  own  tore  the  pol- 
luted cat  from  his  disgusting  clasp  and  bore  it  back  to  its 
mistress. 

Face  to  face  with  Christina,  it  was  only  the  first  part  of  this 
childish  experience  that  Harry  remembered.  The  blows  and 
the  abuse  hardly  figured  in  his  recollection,  because  they  had 
been  so  large  a part  of  his  boyhood  that  they  were  not  note- 
worthy events.  What  came  back  to  him,  with  the  utmost  viv- 
idness, was  the  impulse  he  had  obeyed  to  take  up  the  helpless, 
pleading,  lovely,  bright-eyed,  velvet  creature  and  to  comfort  it 
against  his  heart.  Christina  unconsciously  kept  moving  her 
restless  feet,  so  that  she  was  all  alive  from  head  to  toe  with 
nervous  feline  grace.  Not  as  to  a beautiful  woman  excit- 
ing his  passions,  but  as  to  a poor  little  child,  with  a toy  in  her 
hand,  who  moved  his  love  and  pity,  Harry  could  have  held 


364 


THE  HARE 


out  both  arms  to  this  sad  raven.  He  could  have  nestled  the 
twittering  bird  in  his  warm  shoulder  saying  “What  is  it  that 
she  wants,  what  is  it  I can  do?” 

Footsteps  on  the  hard  road  made  him  turn  round.  The 
guide  had  just  stepped  out  of  the  pine-wood,  bringing  a heavy 
burden  for  himself  and  a lighter  one  for  Harry.  At  the  sight 
of  a short-skirted  young  lady  with  an  ax,  he  frowned  and 
said  pointedly; 

“If  the  worthy  Fraulein  permits  it,  we  must  start  at  once. 
Josef  and  Andreas,  my  two  nephews,  will  meet  us  at  the  foot  of 
the  glaciers.  They  have  gone  on  with  the  ropes  and  irons. 
There  is  no  time  to  lose.  ’ ’ 

Harry  was  troubled.  Glancing  again  at  Christina  he  saw 
that  her  eyes  were  pleading  more  ardently  than  ever.  He 
still  believed  that  she  was  intent  on  mountaineering  and  not  on 
a mountaineer.  He  took  it  that,  having  shown  the  day  before 
at  the  Bubble  that  she  had  a sure  foot,  a strong  nerve  and  a 
cool  head,  she  was  determined  to  prove  that  she  could  do  all 
a man  could  do,  even  to  the  extent  of  hacking  hard  ice  and 
dragging  herself  up  jagged  chimneys.  What  was  he  to  do? 
To  take  her  with  him  would  be  unthinkable  madness.  Yet  to 
turn  his  back  upon  her  and  leave  her  to  spend  a long  day  nurs- 
ing her  chagrin  and  disappointment  would  be  unmannerly 
ingratitude  after  all  her  graciousness.  It  would  be  selfish 
and  unkind.  He  was  on  the  point  of  turning  to  the  guide  and 
of  requesting  an  entirely  new  program  suited  to  the  physical 
powers  of  a lady,  when  the  hand  of  fate  struck  home  and  struck 
hard. 

In  this  particular  instance  the  hand  of  fate  was  not  a 
pretty  hand.  It  was  a skinny  hand,  a sinister  hand,  a hand 
which  opened  and  closed  up  again  like  a pale  and  huge  and 
dreadful  spider.  To  be  exact,  it  was  the  hand  of  the  scraggy 
Englishwoman.  Her  bedroom  window  commanded  the  road, 
and  she  had  heard  Christina’s  voice.  Although  she  showed 


THE  RAVEN 


365 


a hand  and  nothing  more  as  she  softly  opened  the  window, 
Harry’s  quick  eye  caught  the  danger.  In  disgust  and  anger  he 
watched  the  hand  fumbling  the  blind  to  make  a peephole. 

Christina’s  desperate  gaze  followed  Harry’s  until  she  too 
saw  the  hand.  She  flushed  scarlet.  To  run  after  her  beloved 
and  humble  herself  before  him  had  been  an  experience  fraught 
with  bitter-sweet  excitement.  In  elaborating  her  plan  she  had 
silenced  prudish  qualms  by  imagining  the  hour  of  shy  pride 
in  which  she  would  some  day  confess  it.  The  Raven  was  re- 
solved that  when  she  and  Harry  were  all  in  all  to  one  an- 
other she  would  tease  him,  she  would  tell  him  how  nearly 
he  had  lost  her  by  his  thick-headedness,  she  would  archly 
brand  herself  a brazen  hussy ; and  this  match  of  wits  outside 
the  inn  door  on  a chilly  morning  would  live  in  their  fond 
memories  among  the  warmest  of  their  lovers’  secrets.  But 
to  find  that  another  woman  was  looking  on,  that  another 
woman  was  exulting  in  her  difficulties  and  preparing  to  wither 
her  with  scorn  for  making  herself  so  cheap  with  a man  . . . 
it  was  too  much. 

The  church  clock  began  to  strike  six  and  the  guide  said 
again:  “ There ’s  no  time  to  lose.” 

“Then  stop  losing  it,”  cried  Christina.  She  spoke  loudly 
so  that  her  words  should  fly  full  into  the  upper  window. 
“Shoulder  arms.  Quick  march.  Not  that  I believe  you  ever 
do  really  climb  those  high  mountains.  I believe  you  just  sit 
down  and  eat  and  drink  and  smoke  and  talk  when  you  ’re 
half  way  up.  Who ’s  to  contradict  you  when  you  come  home 
and  say  you ’ve  been  to  the  top?  I don’t  pretend  I ’m  go- 
ing to  climb  Mont  Blanc  myself;  but  there  are  more  moun- 
taineers than  one  in  the  world.” 

With  the  unseen  but  undeniable  Englishwoman  skulking  be- 
hind the  blind,  Christina  felt  that  she  had  an  audience  and 
all  her  skill  as  an  actress  came  into  play.  The  poor  little 
heart  was  an  inferno  of  shame  and  bewilderment  and  despair. 


366 


THE  HARE 


but  the  bright  voice  caroled  like  a black-bird’s.  She  seemed 
to  be  careless  of  everything  and  everybody,  a happy  child 
bursting  with  high  spirits.  Once  more  she  swung  the  ax 
round  her  head. 

“If  you  hre  the  other  mountaineer,  Fraulein,  you  mustn’t 
go  climbing  without  a guide,  ’ ’ said  Coggin  anxiously.  ‘ ‘ They 
say  that  a good  guide  for  beginners  is  Franz  Steinmann,  the 
carpenter,  near  the  bridge.” 

“Thank  you,”  retorted  the  Raven  with  glittering  disdain. 
“But  you  forget  that  you  never  saw  this  valley  till  a week 
ago  and  that  I have  been  coming  here  for  my  Sommerfrisch 
year  after  year.  I know  where  to  find  guides.  But  at  this 
moment  I am  more  intent  on  finding  my  coffee.  It  is  waiting 
for  me  and  getting  cold  upstairs.  You  think  ladies  are  a 
nuisance,  so  I will  go.  You  see,  you ’ve  no  time  to  lose.” 

She  hurried  away.  The  moment  her  back  was  turned  on 
Harry  she  could  dissemble  no  longer.  Scalding  tears  filled 
her  eyes  and  her  bursting  heart  seemed  to  rise  in  her  throat 
and  stifle  her.  Harry’s  impulse  was  to  leap  after  her  and 
to  say:  “No,  no.  Have  your  coffee  and  then  we  will  spend 
a long  wonderful  day  together.”  But  he  was  still  under  the 
malign  spell  of  the  skinny  hand.  He  knew  that  the  salon 
and  the  speisensaal  were  in  such  disorder  that  if  he  followed 
Christina  into  the  house  for  a thorough  understanding  he 
would  have  to  mount  the  stairs.  He  stood  stock  still  watch- 
ing the  Raven  enter  the  doorway.  While  he  watched  he  was 
aware,  like  a numb-witted  prisoner  submitting  to  the  shackles, 
of  the  guide  attaching  a load  to  his  shoulders. 

Anna  asked  no  questions  and  made  no  remarks.  She  poured 
out  the  coffee,  which  Christina  drank  eagerly,  and  buttered 
a slice  of  bread  which  remained  uneaten.  Thinking  her 
thoughts  she  descended  the  stairs  for  her  own  breakfast. 

Christina  sat  gazing  steadily  at  the  little  ax  on  her  lap. 


THE  RAVEN 


367 


Harri  would  come  back.  He  bad  run  away  not  from  her, 
from  Christina,  from  his  bride,  but  from  the  hateful  old 
Englishwoman.  In  a little  while  he  would  return  and  they 
would  set  forth  on  a glorious  mountain  ramble,  with  no  fishy 
eye  or  skinny  hand  or  sneering  lip  to  vex  them.  But  when 
the  clock  struck  seven  she  awoke  from  her  dream. 

At  the  end  of  the  corridor  there  was  a window  looking  up 
the  valley.  Christina  hurried  to  it  and  peered  out.  Against 
the  dead  white  of  the  lower  snowfield  she  could  see  four  mov- 
ing objects,  like  black  ants,  pushing  and  wriggling  up- 
wards . . . 

Throughout  that  long  August  day  Henry  Coggin’s  mind  was 
kept  fixed,  nearly  all  the  time,  on  the  tough  business  of  the 
climb.  In  boyhood  he  had  often  been  told  to  use  his  head  to 
save  his  heels : but  never  before  had  he  taken  the  proverb  so 
seriously.  Every  step,  every  halt  for  breath,  brought  his 
brains  as  well  as  his  muscles  into  play.  The  feat  he  was  at- 
tempting involved  climbing  almost  all  the  time,  with  hardly 
any  interludes  of  walking.  Wistful  thoughts  of  the  Raven 
were  not  to  be  expected  of  a man  with  precipices  yawning 
under  his  feet. 

If  it  had  been  suddenly  revealed  to  the  mountaineer  that 
one  of  Europe’s  famous  beauties  was  madly  and  hopelessly 
in  love  with  him  and  that  this  beauty  was  none  other  than 
Vienna’s  adored  Raven,  all  Harry’s  coolness  would  not  have 
saved  him  from  missing  his  step  and  tumbling  headlong  into 
an  abyss.  But  no  suspicion  of  Christina’s  longing  and  misery 
blinked  into  his  innocent  soul.  Twice  or  thrice,  when  the 
guide  found  places  where  they  could  rest  and  eat,  his  mind 
rushed  back  to  the  inn.  What  was  she  doing?  Was  she  hav- 
ing a dull  day?  Would  the  Englishwoman  dare  to  scorn  her? 

Harry  decided  that  he  would  not  leave  the  inn  on  the  mor- 
row. He  had  a clear  fortnight  and  surely  he  could  spend 
a week  of  it  in  these  mountains  to  better  profit  than  in  Brus- 


368 


THE  HARE 


sels  and  Antwerp  and  Ghent  and  Bruges  which  he  had  in- 
tended to  see  on  the  way  home.  Belgium  was  so  near  Eng- 
land that  he  could  visit  it  any  time,  but  it  might  be  years 
before  he  could  again  fare  so  far  afield  as  the  Tyrol. 

Despite  his  humility  and  innocence,  Harry  could  not  wholly 
conceal  from  himself  the  fact  that  it  was  a lady  who  was  work- 
ing these  changes  in  his  plans.  Nothing,  however,  was  further 
from  his  consciousness  than  an  affair  of  the  heart.  At  Am- 
sterdam, in  the  person  of  young  Huntly-Martin ; on  the 
Moselle,  where  the  Freiherr  had  made  him  manage  the  races ; 
at  Laach  and  in  Cologne,  in  the  Black  Forest,  at  Jena,  at 
Ulm,  at  Munich,  at  Pest,  where  monks,  students,  professors, 
musicians,  statesmen  and  even  a king  had  discoursed  with 
him:  in  these  and  other  places  Henry  Coggin’s  wanderings 
had  thrown  him  against  a multitude  of  interesting  acquaint- 
ances, All  of  them  had  been  men  save  Fraulein  Rabe,  and 
Harry  was  grateful  to  Providence  for  reserving  the  pleasant- 
est meeting  of  all  to  the  last. 

A recollection  of  the  hand  in  the  blind  made  Harry  smart 
a little  as  he  sat  munching  his  bread  and  cheese.  Had  he 
done  right  to  talk  with  a young  lady  so  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, seeing  he  already  knew  that  unfriendly  eyes  had  been 
cast  upon  her?  After  brief  consideration  he  decided  that 
he  had  not  done  wrong.  The  Englishwoman’s  interference 
was  pure  malice  and  jealousy.  This  passing  but  charming 
acquaintanceship  had  not  been  of  his  forcing.  It  had  come 
about  naturally,  and  when  it  was  over  he  would  remember 
it  as  the  crown  of  his  experiences.  Indeed,  it  was  all  to  the 
good.  His  was  to  be  a musical  career:  and  it  would  seem 
strange  if,  after  more  than  a year  in  Germany,  he  should  re- 
turn to  England  without  having  made  friends  with  a single 
operatic  artist.  To-morrow  the  Englishwoman  and  her  hus- 
band would  be  gone.  Perhaps  he  could  sit  with  Christina  in 


THE  RAVEN  369 

church.  Afterwards,  she  and  he  would  sing  and  play.  On 
Monday  they  . . . 

The  guide  sounded  the  advance  once  more  and  an  hour 
later  they  were  breathing  the  thin  air  of  the  summit.  With 
blinding  peaks  all  around  him,  Harry  listened  to  the  long 
catalogue  of  spits  and  bergs  and  horns : but  he  could  not  help 
chuckling  to  himself  all  the  time  at  the  thought  of  meeting 
Christina  at  supper  and  of  answering  her  airy  gibe  about 
climbers  who  said  they  had  scaled  heights  when  they  had  n ’t. 
By  the  way,  would  she  wear  a third  wonderful  dress?  He 
thought  he  liked  that  wine-colored  taffeta  better  than  the 
yellow  muslin.  Perhaps  to-night  she  would  wear  blue.  She 
would  look  lovely  in  blue,  with  blue  mountain-flowers,  the 
color  of  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  V 


AFTER  thirteen  hours  of  crawling  and  humping  and 
tugging  and  jumping  and  clutching  and  striding  and 
dropping,  Harry  limped  back  into  the  inn.  His  feet 
seemed  to  belong  to  some  other  person,  so  uncertain  was  his 
control  over  them.  Not  only  his  clothes  but  his  hands  as 
well  were  stained  and  torn.  His  thigh-bones  seemed  to  be 
no  longer  surrounded  by  flesh  and  blood  but  to  be  scraping 
in  two  masses  of  some  strange  substance,  like  a toothache  made 
big  and  solid.  The  last  mile  down  the  well-made  road  tried 
him  far  more  than  any  mile  of  his  climb  up  the  mountain. 
His  mind  ceased  to  work  and  he  merely  stumbled  forward  on 
those  two  sore  and  hobbling  feet  which  some  cripple  had  given 
him  in  exchange  for  his  own. 

The  odors  of  a stewed  chamois  greeted  him  in  the  door- 
way. Having  caught  sight  of  Lena  disappearing  with  a large 
dish  into  the  speisezimmer  he  knew  that  supper  had  begun. 
The  place  seemed  strangely  quiet  but  he  explained  this  im- 
pression by  his  own  utter  fatigue.  Forcing  himself  upstairs 
he  was  about  to  fling  himself  on  the  bed:  but  his  inextinguish- 
able conscience  and  his  iron  will  came  to  the  rescue.  His  wits 
were  working  just  enough  to  remind  him  of  the  early  morn- 
ing encounter  with  Christina.  He  knew  that  if  he  rested 
for  a single  minute  he  would  sleep  until  the  morrow’s  dawn. 
With  a tremendous  effort  he  tore  off  his  clothes,  splashed  him- 
self in  iey  water,  rubbed  down  his  aching  body  with  a rough 
towel,  and  vested  himself  in  a presentable  suit.  Then  he 
clumped  downstairs.  He  decided  that,  immediately  after 
supper,  he  would  politely  ask  Fraulein  Rabe  for  the  story  of 

370 


THE  RAVEN 


371 


her  day’s  doings  and  that  he  would  then  make  known  his 
intention  of  staying  longer  in  the  village.  If  he  could  screw 
up  courage  he  would  very  respectfully  offer  himself  as  her 
escort  and  guide  for  the  remaining  days  of  his  sojourn  among 
the  mountains. 

Harry  turned  the  door-handle  and  entered  the  dining-room. 
He  expected  to  be  greeted  with  the  usual  jovial  sforzando  of 
welcome  and  congratulation  and  chaff,  with  Christina’s  silver 
laugh  rippling  like  a dulcimer  amidst  the  heavier  outcries. 
But  the  room  was  almost  silent ; and  as  soon  as  the  company 
realized  his  presence  the  silence  became  complete. 

Startled  into  full  consciousness,  Harry  glanced  anxiously 
along  the  table.  Two  new  guests  had  arrived.  The  scraggy 
Englishwoman  and  her  spouse  had  departed  and  Christina’s 
place  was  empty. 

Harry  sank  into  his  chair  with  a feeling  of  utter  desola- 
tion. She  was  gone.  Perhaps  back  to  Vienna.  Perhaps  to 
the  sea  which  he  had  heard  her  say  she  longed  for.  Perhaps 
to  some  other  mountain  village.  He  knew  not  whither:  but 
the  Raven  was  flown.  Never  would  he  be  able  to  repair  her 
disappointment  of  the  early  morning ; never  to  hear  her  chirp 
out  the  story  of  her  day’s  doings;  never  to  discover  whether 
she  had  forgiven  him : never  to  unbosom  himself  of  the  thou- 
sand things  he  needed  still  to  tell  her  or  ask  her:  never  to 
see  her  again.  Not  once  since  his  good  horse  Bay  Rum  had 
been  sold  from  under  him  for  money  had  he  known  such  pangs 
of  bereavement  and  remorse. 

He  had  eaten  only  one  morsel  of  the  food  placed  before  him 
when  he  became  aware  that  everybody  was  looking  at  him. 
Harry  blushed  hotly.  Then  a frightful  thought  hit  him 
hard.  That  lean,  mean  Englishwoman  was  gone;  but  no 
doubt  she  had  let  fly  a Parthian  arrow,  empoisoned  with  some 
scandalous  insinuation  against  himself  and  Christina  Maria 
Rabe,  which  had  caused  the  young  lady  to  pack  up  in  disgust 


372 


THE  HARE 


and  amazement  and  to  shake  the  dust  of  the  village  off  her 
dainty  feet  without  a moment ’s  delay.  This  theory  of  her  de- 
parture struck  him  so  forcibly  that  Harry  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork  with  a bang  and  stared  defiantly  at  the  com- 
pany, as  if  challenging  each  and  all  to  breathe  one  word 
against  his  outraged  friend. 

The  taut  silence  was  snapped  by  Frau  Helm,  the  buxom 
Augsburg  lady,  who  suddenly  made  a gurgling  sound  and  then 
burst  into  hysterical  weeping.  Her  two  nieces  drew  her  out 
of  her  chair  and  supported  her  to  the  door.  When  Frau 
Helm  was  gone,  Herr  Fecht  bent  towards  Coggin  and  said, 
very  stiffly: 

“We  expected,  mein  Herr,  that  you  would  ask  the  where- 
abouts of  Fraulein  Rabe.” 

Whenever  a fight  began,  Harry  Coggin ’s  humility  and  shy- 
ness left  him.  With  equal  stiffness  he  replied: 

“I  am  not  entitled  to  discuss  the  lady’s  movements:  but  I 
assume  Fraulein  Rabe  has  concluded  her  holiday  and  gone 
back  to  Vienna.” 

‘ * Fraulein  Rabe ’s  luggage  is  in  her  room  upstairs,  ’ ’ retorted 
the  Austrian  sternly.  “Fraulein  Rabe’s  maid  Anna  is  in  the 
church,  weeping  and  praying.  Fraulein  Rabe  herself  . . . 
well,  the  good  God  alone  knows  where  she  is.  Fraulein  Rabe 
is  lost  in  the  mountains.” 

Harry  jumped  clear  of  his  chair  and  stood  facing  Kerr 
Fecht  across  the  table.  ‘ ‘ What  is  being  done  ? ” he  demanded 
in  tones  like  the  notes  of  a bugle.  “You  are  here  eating  and 
drinking.  What  is  being  done?” 

Herr  Fecht  winced.  He  knew  full  well  that  although  the 
catastrophe  had  overshadowed  the  meal  with  gloom  it  had 
not  caused  him  to  eat  less  than  usual.  The  pleasures  of  the 
table  were  always  too  strong  for  him.  In  a chastened  spirit 
he  answered: 

“Guides  have  searched  all  afternoon  in  vain.  They  have 


THE  RAVEN 


373 


tried  the  dogs,  with  no  result  whatever.  Search  parties  are 
out  in  all  directions  and  will  work  till  nightfall.  But  let 
me  hasten  to  give  you  a message.  Father  Tobel  wants  to 
see  you.” 

Three  strides  took  Harry  out  of  the  long  room.  In  the 
corridor  he  collided  with  Lena  and  asked  almost  roughly  which 
was  Father  Tobel ’s  door.  Forthwith  the  narrow  space  be- 
came filled  with  women,  all  weeping.  Harry  had  no  inkling 
that  these  good  elemental  creatures  had  guessed  Fraulein 
Rabe’s  secret,  the  secret  which  everybody  knew  by  this  time, 
save  himself. 

The  parish  priest  motioned  Harry  into  a horse-hair  chair 
and  disappeared  into  the  dark  passage  which  connected  the 
presbytery  with  the  church.  He  returned  accompanied  by 
Anna.  The  maid  sought  to  transfix  the  young  Englishman 
with  a gaze  of  scorn  and  reproach,  but  the  dart  glanced  off 
the  armor  of  his  innocence.  Harry  observed  nothing  beyond 
her  hopeless  anguish. 

“You  may  be  able  to  help  us,  mein  Herr,”  said  Father 
Tobel.  Only  a few  months  before  he  had  renounced  the 
habit  of  snuff-taking,  after  indulging  in  it  for  nearly  forty 
years,  and  he  still  made  involuntary  motions  towards  a snuff- 
box which  was  no  longer  there.  “Nobody  appears  to  have 
spoken  to  Fraulein  Rabe  to-day  except  yourself  and  this  good 
girl  here,  this  poor  Anna.  I understand  that  the  young  lady 
conversed  with  you  in  the  road,  just  after  my  Mass.  She 
returned  to  her  room,  apparently  troubled.  About  half- 
past seven  she  again  entered  the  church,  and  stayed  there 
until  eight.  Anna  says  that  her  mistress  seemed  by  that  time 
to  have  forgotten  her  trouble,  whatever  it  may  have  been, 
and  to  have  become  even  more  happy  and  cheerful  than  usual. 
Lena,  who  watched  her  through  the  kitchen  window,  confirms 
this.  The  young  lady  then  set  out,  very  sensibly  attired, 
declaring  that  she  was  going  for  a long  walk  and  that  she 


374 


THE  HARE 


might  be  late  for  mittagessen.  She  has  not  come  back.  Can 
you  give  me  any  information?” 

Although  this  recital  smashed  to  pieces  his  faint  hope  that 
Herr  Feclit  was  exaggerating  and  pushed  him  down  into  still 
deeper  anguish,  Harry  did  not  fail  to  perceive  that  the  Raven’s 
honor  was  to  some  extent  in  his  care.  Straightening  his 
aching  back,  he  looked  the  old  priest  full  in  the  face,  cere- 
moniously addressed  him  as  Hochwiirden,  and  said  slowly : 

‘‘Yesterday  Fraulein  Rabe  honored  me  with  her  company 
as  far  as  the  Wasserblase.  To  stand  inside  the  cataract  re- 
quires coolness  and  agility.  Encouraged  by  her  achievement, 
Fraulein  Rabe  possibly  thought  that  even  the  roughest  climb 
was  within  her  powers.  I fear  she  may  have  made  some  rash 
attempt.  That  is  all  I know.” 

Father  Tobel  fumbled  again  for  the  departed  snuff-box. 
Recollecting  himself,  he  gazed  fixedly  at  Harry  and  then  said 
gloomily,  ‘‘H ’m.”  He  had  been  hoping  against  hope  that 
a lovers’  tiff  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  mystery  and  that 
Christina  was  merely  hiding  until  dusk  to  give  her  young 
milord  a fright  and  a lesson.  This  faint  hope  was  gone. 
Again  he  muttered  ‘ ‘ H ’m,  ” and  began  despising  the  English- 
man for  his  heartlessness.  At  that  moment,  however,  Harry’s 
despair  broke  out  like  a wild  sea  through  the  suddenly  shat- 
tered wall  of  his  self-control. 

‘ ‘ That  is  all  I know,  ’ ’ cried  Harry,  springing  up  and  almost 
shouting.  ‘‘Now  let  me  go.  In  there,  they  are  feasting.  In 
here,  we  are  talking.  I am  off.  She  must  be  found.  She 
shall  be  found  to-night,  I swear  it.” 

The  priest  moved  quickly  to  the  door  and  stood  with  his 
broad  shoulders  against  it.  The  powerful  frame  of  this 
peasant-bred  old  man,  as  well  as  his  silver  hairs  and  his  sacred 
office,  made  Harry  fall  back.  ‘‘Swear  nothing,  my  son,”  he 
said.  ‘‘We  are  in  the  hands  of  God.  At  any  moment  she 
may  be  brought  back.  She  may  have  sprained  an  ankle 


THE  RAVEN 


375 


and  she  may  be  lying  in  some  distant  farm.  Remember, 
most  of  the  men-folk  are  away  with  the  cattle,  in  the  high 
pastures,  and  there  would  be  few  messengers  to  send.  If  no 
trace  of  her  is  found  to-night  . . . well,  in  the  morning  you 
shall  help.  ’ ’ 

“The  morning?”  echoed  Harry,  stupefied.  “But  to-night, 
to-night?  You  cannot  mean  ...” 

“Yes,  I mean  that,  my  poor  friend,”  answered  the  priest, 
deeply  moved.  “To  be  lost  in  the  mountains  is  not  a little 
thing.  I mean  that  she  may  have  to  endure  a night  in  the 
darkness,  the  cold,  the  solitude  with  nothing  to  help  her  save 
her  prayers.  I learn  she  always  carries  her  beads.  Let  us 
hope  she  is  saying  them  now,  in  misery  perhaps,  but  in  safety.  ’ ’ 

“It  is  outrageous,  impossible,”  cried  Harry,  storming. 
“I  will  call  back  Josef  and  Andreas.  Let  me  pass.” 

“My  son,”  answered  the  old  man  sadly.  “To-night  I am 
in  command.  This  is  not  your  village.  And  it  is  not  the 
first  time,  alas,  that  our  glaciers  and  precipices  have  claimed 
forever  some  happy  and  careless  traveler  who  had  come  to 
them  for  a few  days  of  pleasure.  "We  men  of  the  mountains 
will  not  fail  in  our  duty.  Nobody  has  ever  accused  us  of 
lacking  bravery  and  humanity.  If  I should  permit  you  to 
rush  about  in  the  dark  we  should  have  two  tragedies  instead 
of  one.  At  the  best,  you  would  exhaust  yourself  and  do  no 
good:  at  the  worst  you  would  break  your  neck.  Besides,  I 
can  see  plainly  that  you  are  worn  out  already.  Retire  at  once 
to  rest,  first  praying  your  most  earnest  prayer  for  that  frail 
sweet  creature  who  is  so  dear  to  us  all.  I command  you. 
Good-night,  my  son,  and  may  God  give  you  all  the  help  you 
need.” 

Harry  bowed  his  head.  During  the  old  man’s  exhortation 
his  physical  weariness  had  stolen  back  upon  him,  dragging 
down  his  eyelids,  relaxing  his  muscles  and  causing  drifts  of 
hot  mist  to  float  across  his  perceptions  so  that  he  had  to  hurt 


376 


THE  HARE 


his  eyes  and  brains  in  sorry  efforts  to  make  sure  of  the  solid 
world  once  more.  Through  a haze  he  saw  the  cure  light  a 
bedroom  candle.  With  somebody  firmly  holding  and  gently 
pushing  him,  he  gained  his  room. 

Had  Tom  remembered  to  rub  down  Bay  Rum?  What  was 
the  matter  with  St.  Michael’s  clock?  Why  did  it  strike  the 
hour  in  that  thin,  quick,  poor  way,  without  first  chiming  the 
four  quarters?  Where  was  the  book  he  had  been  reading — 
the  book  about  a mountain  village  and  about  a black-haired 
violet-eyed  girl  who  swung  a little  ax?  He  must  find  the 
book  somehow;  because  he  hadn’t  finished  the  story.  If  any- 
body had  borrowed  it  or  stolen  it,  how  could  he  ever  learn 
the  end? 

Harry  awoke  to  find  his  candle  still  burning.  It  was  down, 
however,  to  its  last  flickerings.  He  had  just  time  to  see  that 
he  had  fallen  upon  the  bed  only  half -undressed  when  the  light 
went  out. 

It  was  a moonless  night  without  wind,  without  stars.  No- 
body was  stirring  in  the  house.  He  might  have  been  lying 
at  the  bottom  of  an  abandoned  coal-mine,  so  black  was  the 
darkness,  so  deep  the  silence. 

For  a few  moments,  memory  still  drowsed.  Then  it  began 
to  stir.  A sense  of  some  horror,  near  and  dire  and  deathly, 
weighed  on  Harry’s  quickening  consciousness.  It  was  as  if 
the  impalpable  darkness  was  gathering  somehow  into  a hard 
and  solid  core,  like  a frightful  idol  of  ebony  in  the  heart 
of  the  night ’s  blackness.  He  knew  vaguely  that  he  was  pinned 
under  a dank  landslip  of  sorrow.  Suddenly  Memory  opened 
her  eyes  wide  and  shrieked  out  her  woe  and  fear.  He  re- 
membered everything. 

As  if  to  fling  the  evil  from  him,  he  lurched  clear  of  the  bed- 
clothes and  sprang  to  the  floor.  With  all  his  wits  about  him 
he  breasted  the  dreadful  brunt  of  the  truth.  Somewhere  on 


THE  RAVEN 


377 


the  mountains,  at  that  very  moment,  Christina  was  huddling 
and  moaning,  half-starved,  half-frozen,  perhaps  wounded, 
without  help,  without  hope.  For  hours  and  hours  she  must 
have  cried  out  his  name ; and  the  fall  of  dumb  and  cold  and 
black  night,  like  a stealthy  drift  of  sable  snow,  was  the  only 
answer. 

He  could  do  nothing.  In  darkness  so  profound  that  he 
failed  to  put  his  groping  hand  upon  his  box  of  matches,  what 
could  he  even  attempt?  Despair  seared  him  with  her  white- 
hot  irons,  mocked  him  in  his  ear,  tore  him  with  her  scourge 
of  thorns.  He  owned  his  defeat  at  last  and  crept  back  into 
bed.  The  aches  in  his  thighs  were  worse  than  ever.  And 
he  was  wildly  hungry.  Father  Tobel,  in  bundling  him  up  to 
bed,  did  not  know  that  for  supper  Harry  had  eaten  only  one 
small  disc  of  carrot  from  the  stew  of  chamois.  Further  sleep 
was  impossible.  Yet  he  must  lie  for  hours  before  dawn  would 
set  him  on  the  path  of  rescue. 

What  was  Christina  doing  now  ? The  answer  which  rushed 
into  his  mind  thrilled  him  with  thankfulness.  It  was  as  if  the 
full  moon  had  swept  night’s  velvet  curtains  aside  and  had 
filled  every  corner  of  the  room  with  her  soft  silvern  splendors. 
Christina,  he  felt  sure,  was  not  alone  after  all.  She  was  pray- 
ing, full  of  faith  and  hope.  Had  not  the  priest  said  that  she 
carried  her  beads  everywhere?  Pitiful  angels  knelt  around 
her,  keeping  fond  watch  and  strong  ward. 

Under  Harry’s  pillow  lay  a leather  wallet  containing  his 
bank-notes  and  passport,  his  mother’s  silhouette,  Edward 
Redding’s  long  letter  and  the  rosary  which  the  Benedictine 
had  given  him  in  Cologne.  He  drew  forth  the  rosary.  Al- 
though the  donor  had  taught  him  how  to  tell  the  beads  and 
say  the  prayers,  this  pious  exercise  had  never  appealed  to 
Harry,  and  he  had  vaguely  agreed  with  those  who  regretted 
it  as  a pope-made  excrescence  upon  true  and  simple  Christian- 1 
ity.  But,  lying  there  in  the  darkness  and  crushing  the  beads 


378 


THE  HARE 


in  his  hot  palm,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  divinely  given  a 
handful  of  pearls  beyond  price  with  which  he  could  ransom 
Christina  from  the  swart  ogres  of  the  mountains.  If  beads 
were  good  enough  for  Christina  they  were  good  enough  for 
him. 

When  the  fifteen  decades  were  finished  the  darkness  re- 
mained as  black  as  ever  and  the  ebony  idol  began  once  more 
to  cast  his  foul  spell.  The  idea  came  to  Harry  that  he  would 
storm  Heaven  by  saying  "the  whole  rosary  seven  times  in  honor 
of  the  Seven  Dolors.  By  fixing  his  mind  on  this  holy  task 
he  was  able  to  endure  the  remaining  hours  of  the  night.  After 
each  round  of  ardent  prayers,  he  allowed  himself  to  think  of 
what  he  would  do  when  Christina  was  found.  He  would  post- 
pone his  return  to  England  until  the  last  possible  moment. 
If  she  had  sustained  any  injury,  he  would  write  to  Edward 
Redding  and  would  stay  within  reach  of  her  until  she  could 
dance  and  sing  and  prattle  as  merrily  as  ever.  He  would 
wait  on  her,  read  to  her,  write  music  for  her.  But  it  still 
did  not  occur  to  him  that  he,  Henry  Coggin,  son  of  William 
Coggin,  rag-and-bone  man,  could  ever  be  more  to  her  than 
a very  dutiful  and  grateful  attendant,  a chance  acquaint- 
ance of  travel,  and  perhaps  a kindred  spirit  in  music. 

As  he  finished  the  last  circlet  of  Aves  and  opened  his  eyes, 
Harry  could  make  out  the  square  of  the  window.  Day  was 
breaking.  Although  it  was  too  dark  to  dress,  he  rose  and 
splashed  and  then  rubbed  himself  smartly  with  strong  oils 
until  the  aches  in  his  legs  gave  place  to  aches  in  his  arms. 
The  light  was  still  faint  when  he  descended  the  stairs  and 
joined  a group  of  guides  and  peasants  in  the  vaulted  base- 
ment, where  they  had  been  spending  the  night.  The  remains 
of  a rough  breakfast  lay  upon  the  deal  table.  The  coffee-jugs 
were  empty  and  Harry  got  nothing  save  a chunk  of  black 
bread.  Almost  immediately  the  searchers  repaired  to  the 
church,  where  Father  Tobel  celebrated  Mass.  Then  they 


THE  RAVEN  379 

broke  into  parties  of  four  and  set  out,  scattering  in  all  direc- 
tions according  to  some  agreed  plan. 

Coggin’s  three  companions  were  kind-hearted  and  high- 
minded  men ; but  they  had  often  ranged  the  country-side  be- 
fore in  search  of  missing  beasts  or  human  beings,  and  it  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  their  grief  and  anxiety  should  equal 
Harry’s  own.  The  conversation  soon  grated  upon  him.  It 
turned  mainly  upon  the  fame  of  a certain  cow  who  had  fought 
a bull  and  beaten  him.  It  appeared  that  this  Amazonian 
creature  was  just  then  at  grass  in  the  upper  pastures  and  was 
to  be  given  a public  welcome  on  her  return  to  the  village  at 
Michaelmas.  When  Harry  brought  the  talk  round  to  the 
chances  of  finding  Fraulein  Rabe  quickly,  he  soon  regretted 
his  interference : because  the  oldest  of  the  three  men  proceeded 
to  enlarge  upon  the  vastness  and  wildness  of  the  mountains 
and  to  describe  all  the  worst  accidents  to  mountaineers  since 
his  boyhood.  He  did  not  narrate  a single  instance  of  a miss- 
ing person  escaping  without  loss  of  life  or  limb. 

When  the  sun  was  high  Harry  could  stand  the  leisurely  gait 
and  the  grisly  chatter  no  longer.  He  asked  to  be  told  plainly 
whether  his  assistance  was  likely  to  be  of  much  value;  and, 
on  receiving  a very  courteous  intimation  that  it  was  not,  he 
bade  his  companions  farewell  and  picked  his  way  towards 
a road  which  they  pointed  out  to  him.  His  nerves  were  giving 
way. 

A tiny  white  building  confronted  him  where  the  track  and 
the  road  met.  It  was  a wayside  shrine.  In  honor  of  the  As- 
sumption pious  hands  had  adorned  a rude  image  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  with  greenery  and  flowers.  As  he  stood  on  the  stone 
platform,  leaning  against  the  chapel  and  gazing  down  the 
sunlit  valley,  a sweet  sound  of  bells  drifted  up  to  him  from 
the  village.  For  the  first  time,  Harry  realized  that  it  was 
Sunday.  A thousand  miles  away,  in  stuffy  Bulford,  St. 
Michael’s  grand  bells  were  ringing  too.  In  the  gaunt  Baptist 


380 


THE  HARE 


chapel,  Pastor  Clupp  was  stiffly  giving  out  the  first  long 
hymn.  Did  God  hearken  to  bells  and  hymns?  Harry  was 
on  the  point  of  revolt.  But  he  rebuked  himself  sternly  and 
went  down  upon  his  knees.  Gazing  through  the  grille  at  the 
poor  cast-iron  crucifix  he  repeated,  almost  mechanically,  a 
little  rhyme  of  his  childhood,  “Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild.” 
He  added  “Our  Father,”  the  prayer  of  Pastor  Clupp  and 
of  St.  Michael’s  rector  and  of  the  Pope  of  Rome  alike.  Then, 
growing  bold  again  with  God  and  with  His  Saints,  he 
abandoned  set  forms  of  petition  and  poured  out  his  whole  soul 
in  fervent  entreaties  of  his  own.  He  challenged  high 
Heaven  to  work  swift  miracles  and  to  lead  him  to  Chris- 
tina’s side.  Surely  it  could  not  be  Heaven’s  will  that  she 
should  be  rescued  by  men  who  thought  her  less  wonderful  than 
a fighting  cow. 

In  answer  to  his  abundant  prayers  throughout  the  long 
night  God  had  vouchsafed  no  assurance  that  the  Raven  would 
be  found:  but,  as  he  rose  from  the  warm  stone  sill  of  the 
chapel,  he  was  given  a supernatural  confidence  that  before 
many  hours  had  passed  he  would  come  upon  her.  This  con- 
fidence restored  his  courage  but  not  his  happiness.  He  did 
not  require  illumination  from  heaven  in  order  to  know  that, 
after  such  a day  and  such  a night,  Christina  would  not  be 
the  buoyant,  bird-like  creature  who  had  tripped  beside  him 
from  the  Wasserblase.  Perhaps  he  would  find  her  lamed  for 
life,  or,  worse  still,  bereft  of  reason.  Harry  strove  to  put 
away  these  thoughts.  His  business  was  to  press  on  and  to 
find  her. 

To  the  right  of  the  road,  about  half  a mile  away,  he  identi- 
fied the  torrent  which  fed  the  Wasserblase,  much  further  down 
the  valley.  Higher  up  rose  a showy  little  summit  known  as 
the  Cat’s  Head,  by  reason  of  two  ear -shaped  peaks  with  a 
grassy  flat  between  them.  As  the  Cat’s  Head  looked  near  and 
easy  to  climb  the  guides  had  made  a thorough  examination 


THE  RAVEN 


381 


of  it  the  evening  before,  believing  that  it  was  by  far  the  most 
likely  goal  for  Christina’s  rash  adventure.  Harry  propped 
himself  against  a rock  and  tried  to  picture  her  movements. 
Although  the  guides  had  abandoned  the  Cat’s  Head  theory,  he 
felt  sure  it  was  the  true  one.  Moreover  the  road  on  which  he 
was  standing  was  the  Cat’s  Head  road.  He  had  reached  a 
point  about  three  miles  above  the  village. 

Harry  imagined  the  lonely  girl  plodding  up  this  rough  and 
dusty  road.  On  recalling  to  mind  the  view  from  the  inn  he 
perceived  that  the  Cat ’s  Head  looked  much  more  distant  from 
this  point  than  from  the  village,  although  it  was  really  three 
miles  nearer.  Straining  his  ear  he  caught  plainly  the  song 
of  the  torrent  in  its  rock-strewn  channel.  He  became  per- 
suaded that  if  Christina  had  indeed  chosen  this  road  she  must 
soon  have  grown  weary  of  it  and  that  the  sound  of  tumbling 
waters  would  certainly  have  lured  her  aside.  He  decided 
to  hurry  on  and  to  keep  a sharp  eye  open  for  a path  leading 
off  to  the  right. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  found  what  he  wanted.  A faint  but 
undeniable  track  struck  off  towards  the  straggling  line  of 
ragged  trees  which  marked  the  course  of  the  stream.  With- 
out hesitating  a moment  he  followed  this  track.  The  con- 
viction that  he  was  on  the  right  way  became  stronger  than 
ever. 

Half  way  to  the  torrent,  the  track  skirted  a mass  of  rock 
on  the  left.  On  the  right  the  ground  fell  away  as  steeply 
as  a wall  into  a long  green  hollow.  This  pretty  precipice 
was  less  than  fifteen  feet  deep,  but  the  rock  crowded  the  path 
so  close  to  the  brink  that  Harry  winced  at  the  thought  of 
Christina  balancing  herself  along  it.  Still,  she  was  sure-footed. 
At  the  Wasserblase — 

He  came  to  a sharp  halt.  For  a moment  his  heart  as  well 
as  his  feet  stood  still.  There,  at  the  bottom  of  the  wall  of 
rock,  lay  some  scattered  flowers,  only  half  withered.  They 


382 


THE  HARE 


were  beyond  all  doubt  flowers  which  somebody  had  gathered 
within  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  and  they  had  been  either 
dropped  or  thrown  away. 

Harry  sat  down  on  the  verge  of  the  precipice  and  cautiously 
lowered  himself  to  a projecting  ledge  from  which  he  thought 
he  could  jump  down  into  the  gully.  But  no  sooner  had  his 
heels  struck  the  stone  than  it  broke  under  his  weight.  He 
sprang  clear  and  landed  on  soft  ground  while  earth  and  knobs 
of  loose  rock  were  still  slithering  into  the  grass  behind  him. 

The  fading  flowers  lay  a few  yards  to  his  left.  On  ap- 
proaching them,  he  found  that  they  too  were  partly  buried 
under  stones  and  loose  earth.  He  scrutinized  the  wall  of  the 
gully  and  saw  that  a continuation  of  the  same  ledge  had  quite 
recently  crumbled  under  some  strain,  probably  the  weight  of 
a person  trying  to  descend.  Tingling  with  excitement  he 
began  searching  for  footprints.  He  found  none:  but  on  a 
flat  stone  he  discovered  a gash  in  the  moss  as  if  some  sharp 
and  heavy  instrument  had  fallen  upon  it  from  a good  height. 
Had  Christina  dropped  her  little  ax  and  climbed  down  to 
retrieve  it?  He  did  not  know.  But  of  one  thing  he  was 
sure.  The  person  who  had  jumped  or  fallen  from  the  path 
above  could  not  possibly  have  climbed  back  again  but  must 
have  sought  egress  lower  down  the  gully.  He  hastened  on. 
The  gully  wound  like  a dry  watercourse  between  very  steep 
sides  and  at  the  first  bend  the  ground  was  muddy.  He  hunted 
about  and  came  upon  a footprint  at  last.  It  was  a small  foot- 
print. It  was  hers. 

Henry  Coggin  raced  forward  like  a hare.  But  it  flashed 
upon  him  that  it  would  be  indelicate  and  even  dangerous  to 
burst  upon  her  without  warning.  He  pulled  up.  It  would 
be  best  to  call  out  her  name.  Perhaps  she  would  answer. 
But  in  any  event  she  would  hear  him  in  this  noonday  still- 
ness and  would  be  prepared. 

The  spot  where  Harry  had  come  to  a stop  was  a tiny  amphi- 


THE  RAVEN 


383 


theater,  like  the  bottom  of  a funnel,  with  the  vaster  amphi- 
theater of  the  mountains  encircling  the  enormous  space  above 
it.  Harry  drew  in  a long  breath  and  was  about  to  call 
“Fraulein  Rabe”  when  it  struck  him  that  these  everlasting 
solitudes  were  not  the  place  for  Frau,  or  Fraulein,  for  Herr, 
or  Monsieur  or  Miss.  Taking  courage  he  cried  in  tones  as 
firm  and  clear  as  a trumpet  of  brass,  “Christina:  Christina: 
Christina  Maria!” 

He  did  not  know  that  the  most  wonderful  echo  in  the  Tyrol 
could  be  heard  from  the  place  where  he  stood ; and  though  his 
was  a stout  heart  he  was  terror-struck  when  a Babel  of  sharp 
voices  took  up  the  chorus,  shouting  “Christina,  Christina 
Maria.”  When  they  ceased,  gruffer  voices  called  gravely 
“Christina  Maria.”  It  was  as  if  the  shrill  goddesses  and 
grim  gods  of  eld  were  bidding  a soul  to  judgment.  Then, 
after  a silence,  one  kinder  voice  which  seemed  to  speak  from 
far  behind  the  mountains,  from  the  furthest  edge  of  the  world, 
said  clearly  “Maria”:  and  once  more  all  was  still. 

Perhaps  she  had  heard:  but  she  had  not  answered. 

Almost  on  tip-toe  Harry  stole  forward.  He  resolved,  at  the 
first  sight  of  her,  to  roll  some  stones,  to  break  some  twigs  or 
to  hail  her  very  softly.  The  gully  turned  sharply  to  the  left : 
and,  before  he  reached  the  bend,  Harry  could  see  from  the 
dip  of  the  rocks  ahead  of  him,  that  it  ran  steeply  down  as 
well.  He  gained  the  brow  of  the  slope  and  saw  a sight  which 
made  him  leap  for  joy. 

Just  below  him  the  gully  seemed  to  end  in  a round  pit, 
walled  by  perpendicular  cliffs  and  carpeted  with  short  grass, 
as  fine  and  level  as  a lawn.  On  the  far  side  of  this  rotunda 
yawned  a shallow  cave  or  alcove,  niched  about  five  feet  deep 
in  the  rock.  Under  this  arch,  protected  from  sun  and  rain, 
knelt  Christina. 

Harry’s  loud  shout  of  a few  minutes  before  had  not  carried 
far  enough  to  arouse  her.  Christina  was  kneeling  with  her 


384? 


THE  HARE 


forehead  pressed  against  the  cool  stone.  Her  arms  were  out- 
stretched so  that  she  could  support  herself  by  gripping  the 
knobby  surface  of  the  rock  with  both  hands.  She  had  un- 
bound her  magnificent  black  hair  and  it  streamed  over  her 
left  shoulder  until  it  reached  the  ground  whereon  she  knelt. 
From  a projection  on  the  innermost  wall  of  the  niche  hung 
Christina’s  beads — the  rosary  which  Father  Tobel  had  de- 
clared to  be  her  constant  companion.  It  was  arranged  so 
that  the  five  and  fifty  beads  traced  the  shape  of  a heart, 
while  the  tiny  crucifix  drooped  from  the  center.  As  if  to 
form  a homely  altar,  two  colored  pictures,  smaller  than 
ordinary  playing-cards,  had  been  placed  beneath  the  crucifix 
on  a narrow  ledge,  with  bits  of  stone  leaning  against  their 
edges  so  that  the  wind  should  not  puff  them  away. 

Although  he  could  have  shouted  and  jumped  for  gladness, 
Harry  made  a tremendous  effort  and  controlled  himself. 
Never  before  had  he  been  in  the  presence  of  a lady  with 
loosened  tresses,  and  his  super-abundant  delicacy  bade  him 
find  some  means  of  awakening  Christina  and  of  letting  her 
know  that  help  was  near.  Then  she  would  be  able  to  re-bind 
her  hair,  to  re-glove  her  hands  and  to  meet  him  with  no  hurt 
to  her  modesty  and  pride. 

Harry  Coggin  could  not  devise  a plan.  There  were  no  dry 
twigs  to  break,  no  loose  stones  to  set  rolling.  Pondering  hard, 
he  kept  his  gaze  on  the  sweet  scene  before  him.  As  he  was 
standing  on  a height,  the  two  religious  pictures  were  almost 
level  with  his  eyes  and  he  recognized  them  as  the  little  prints 
with  4 ‘For  Christina”  written  on  their  backs,  which  he  had 
seen  in  the  Raven’s  prayer-book. 

A sigh  of  wind,  eddying  lightly  round  the  narrow  hollow, 
ruffled  the  kneeling  girl’s  long  hair  and  made  the  hanging 
rosary  swing  back  and  forth.  Harry  could  hear  the  little 
crucifix  tapping  against  the  rock.  Suddenly,  as  if  in  obedience 
to  that  silvery  tinkling,  the  sun  lifted  his  golden  shield  above 


THE  RAVEN 


385 


the  broken  rim  of  the  pit  and  drove  home  his  glittering  spear 
full  into  the  shadow  of  the  alcove.  The  crucifix  shone  as  if 
it  had  been  cut  out  of  a single  rock-crystal,  and  the  cheap 
gilt  backgrounds  of  the  little  pictures  glowed  like  the  precious 
metal  in  a Russian  ikon.  Christina’s  raven-black  hair  became 
more  than  ever  glorious  in  the  sparkling  light. 

Then,  without  a moment’s  warning,  the  glittering  spear 
glanced  back  and  pierced  Henry  Coggin’s  heart.  As  the 
jagged,  white-hot  blade  thrust  at  his  very  marrow,  instantly 
he  knew  all  the  truth.  In  the  harsh  light  he  had  seen  her 
right  hand,  her  poor  right  hand,  her  dead  right  hand. 

Two  long  leaps  and  a few  stumbling  strides  carried  him 
down  the  slope  and  across  the  grass.  He  fell  on  his  knees 
beside  her.  More  than  once  during  his  hapless  childhood, 
Harry  had  been  taken  by  his  witless  and  unimaginative  father 
to  help  in  the  frightful  task  of  the  undertaker.  Harry’s 
own  arms  had  laid  the  worn  body  of  his  mother  in  the  oaken 
casket  which  his  own  reverent  hands  had  made.  There- 
fore he  knew  well  the  awful  mien  of  death. 

Christina’s  eyes  were  raised  towards  the  chiming,  shining 
crucifix  and  her  smile  was  like  the  smile  of  Stephen,  in  the 
painted  window  at  St.  Michael’s — the  smile  of  Stephen  when 
he  “saw  the  heavens  opened  and  the  Lord  Jesus.”  But  the 
memory  of  the  old  window  at  Bulford  and  of  Blessed 
Stephen’s  ecstasy  had  hardly  arisen  in  Harry’s  mind  when 
it  was  shattered  to  pieces,  like  stained  glass  shivered  by  the 
hand  of  an  angry  giant,  and  through  the  ruin  another  memory 
showed  clear. 

As  plainly  as  if  it  had  been  hanging  on  the  mossy  wall 
beside  him,  Harry  beheld  a picture,  a steel  engraving,  which 
had  adorned  his  strange  dining-room  in  Bulford.  It  por- 
trayed Romeo  kneeling  beside  the  supposed  corpse  of  Juliet 
in  the  burial  vault  of  the  Capulets.  For  one  long  breathless 
moment  Harry  believed  that  he  had  been  mistaken  and  that 


386 


THE  HARE 


Christina  still  lived.  Yes.  Christina  was  alive,  just  as  Juliet 
was  alive,  despite  the  horrors  of  the  charnel-house,  despite  her 
lover’s  despair.  So  vivid  was  his  recollection  that  Harry 
saw  again  before  his  eyes  the  lines  of  Shakespeare  which 
had  faced  him  a thousand  times,  under  the  engraving,  and  a 
voice  seemed  to  be  declaiming: 

Death  that  hath  suck’d  the  honey  of  thy  breath 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty : 

Thou  art  not  conquer’d:  beauty’s  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips  and  in  thy  cheeks, 

And  death’s  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there. 

Romeo  believed  Juliet  dead  and  he  was  wrong.  Christina 
was  not  dead.  It  could  not  be  that  Christina  was  dead. 
Juliet  was  only  in  a trance.  Christina  was  only  in  a trance. 
Fatigue,  hunger,  thirst,  terror  had  utterly  exhausted  her. 

Not  knowing  that  he  did  so,  Harry  threw  a protecting 
arm  around  the  slender  waist.  Christina’s  shapely  arms  and 
white  little  hands  slid  slowly  down  the  front  of  her  altar 
and  she  sank  against  Harry’s  breast,  like  a weary,  happy 
bride.  A thrill  of  wind  flung  her  hair  about  his  shoulder. 
Her  cold  forehead  touched  his  burning  cheek. 

At  that  soft  touch  of  Death ’s  chill  hand,  something  snapped 
in  the  soul  of  Harry  Coggin.  His  iron  restraint,  forged 
through  long  years  of  sorrow,  flicked  into  nothingness  like  a 
shred  of  cotton  flung  into  a furnace.  From  his  dry  lips  and 
from  his  breaking  heart  there  went  up  a bitter  cry,  as  of  one 
defeated  and  sore  stricken  and  forsaken.  He  cried: 

‘ ‘ My  God,  my  God.  I am  too  late,  too  late ! ’ ’ 

Sharply  and  quickly,  as  if  in  their  hate-parched  hearts 
they  had  been  longing  for  this  hour,  the  demons  of  the  moun- 
tains cried  back: 

“Too  late,  too  late!” 

A moment  after,  the  gruffer  and  baser  fiends  took  up  the 


THE  RAVEN 


387 


tale,  muttering  and  chuckling  “Too  late,  too  late.”  And 
last  of  all,  one  pitiful  voice,  ever  so  far  away  but  as  clear 
as  a silver  trumpet,  blew  the  awful  tidings  from  the  dizzy 
edge  of  this  world,  across  the  gulfs  of  space  to  the  loving 
spirits  on  some  more  blessed  orb,  sadly  calling  ‘ 1 Too  late.  ’ ’ 

"When  Harry  came  to  himself  he  was  still  kneeling  against 
the  side  of  the  cave  with  Christina  in  his  arms.  The  sense 
of  duty  once  more  became  supreme  within  him.  Suppressing 
all  emotion,  he  fixed  his  mind  wholly  upon  what  he  ought  to 
do.  Surely  the  proper  course  was  to  lay  the  lifeless  body 
reverently  upon  the  grass,  to  cover  it  with  his  coat,  and  to 
speed  back  to  the  presbytery  for  help. 

Very  gently  he  rose  to  his  feet,  raising  Christina  with  him. 
She  had  been  dead  only  a few  hours.  There  was  a sweet 
spot  just  behind  him,  a dry  stretch  of  clean  turf  where  the 
sun’s  rays  would  not  strike  again  until  the  morrow.  There, 
in  cool  shadow,  with  a giant  rock  for  monument,  he  decided 
to  deck  her  bier. 

Yet  . . . when  he  looked  up  at  the  blinding  mountains  and 
the  unpitying  sky,  at  the  death-moist  crags  and  the  crooning 
pine-woods,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  leave  her  behind.  It 
was  in  vain  for  faith  and  reason  to  remind  him  that  Christina’s 
soul  had  fled  and  that  the  frail  burden  in  his  arms  was  not 
his  sweet,  bright,  beautiful,  brave,  rare  friend.  No.  It  was 
unthinkable.  He  could  not  leave  her  behind.  Harry  slid 
his  right  hand  under  the  still  pliant  knees,  and,  with  his 
left  arm  still  clasping  her  waist  and  her  head  still  resting 
against  his  shoulder,  he  looked  about  for  the  way  of  egress 
which  he  knew  would  be  found.  But  as  he  took  his  first  step 
forward  he  nearly  stumbled  against  something  hard,  which 
moved  and  clattered. 

It  was  the  little  ax.  Christina  had  laid  it  in  front  of  her 
altar  and  must  have  been  kneeling  almost  upon  it.  Harry 


388 


THE  HARE 


noticed  that  the  edge  of  the  blade  was  dinted,  and  he  was 
filled  with  loathing  for  this  foolish  and  fatal  toy  which  he 
had  given  her  in  a most  evil  hour.  With  her  white  neck  and 
beautiful  throat  just  below  his  eyes,  he  could  not  help  shud- 
dering as  if  he  had  trodden  upon  the  ax  of  an  executioner. 
As  it  was  impossible  to  stoop  down  and  pick  up  the  hateful 
thing  he  had  an  itch  to  punt  it  along  in  front  of  him  with 
his  toes  until  he  could  kick  it  into  some  crevasse  where  the 
blade  would  rust  and  the  handle  would  rot,  out  of  sight  and 
out  of  mind.  But  he  remembered  that  Christina  had  loved 
this  little  ax ; so  he  stepped  over  it  and  passed  on. 

In  a fold  of  the  rocks  Coggin  discovered  a narrower  but 
much  deeper  cave.  At  a hasty  glance  it  seemed  to  burrow 
into  hopeless  darkness;  but  he  entered  it  boldly.  At  the 
first  bend  he  saw  before  him  daylight  and  heard  a faint 
rumbling  of  water.  There  was  barely  room  for  himself  and 
his  precious  load,  and  sometimes  he  had  to  gather  Christina 
more  closely  to  his  breast  and  bow  his  head  until  his  cheek 
touched  hers. 

The  chill  tunnel  opened  into  the  higher  valley  of  the  Was- 
serblase.  A few  paces  away,  the  flashing  waters  poured  them- 
selves from  a high  ledge  of  rock  into  a deep  pool.  Trees 
were  gathered  together  in  surprising  variety : the  juniper  and 
the  oak,  the  beech  and  the  mountain  ash,  the  willow  and  the 
rhododendron,  with  a dense  pine-wood  on  the  further  bank. 
The  patches  of  close-cropped  grass  were  gay  with  Alpine 
flowers,  more  gaudy  than  jewels  in  the  hot  sunshine. 

Descending  very  carefully  to  the  water’s  brink,  Harry’s 
quick  wits  told  him  that  if  only  he  could  ford  the  stream  and 
penetrate  the  belt  of  woodland  he  must  certainly  reach  a good 
track  down  to  the  village,  which  he  had  noted  some  days  be- 
fore. But  the  pool  was  too  deep,  and  the  climb  to  the  brow 
of  the  cascade  too  steep,  while  the  rapids  below  were  too 


THE  RAVEN 


389 


eager.  Wholly  baffled,  he  began  descending  the  ravine.  Soon 
he  came  to  a spot  where  a lower  waterfall  splashed  into  a 
longer  and  shallower  pool,  and  he  decided  that  it  would  be  safe 
to  stride  from  bouldlr  to  boulder  to  the  other  side. 

In  mid-stream  Harry  paused.  The  next  stride  would  be 
almost  a leap  and  the  channel  which  divided  him  from  the 
great  stone  beyond  was  so  profound  that  he  could  not  see 
the  bottom.  To  gather  strength  and  breath  it  was  neces- 
sary to  halt  and  rest.  A welcome  cloud  hid  the  sun  and 
shielded  him  from  the  blaze. 

He  gazed  down  into  the  pool.  Thereabouts  the  surface  was 
as  smooth  as  a looking-glass,  and  the  reflections  were  of  life- 
like solidity  and  brilliancy.  Inverted  in  the  flawless  mirror 
he  beheld  a wiry,  brawny  youth  carrying  and  clasping  in  his 
arms  a milk-white  beauty  whose  raven-black  tresses  rippled 
in  the  light  tides  of  summer  air.  And  the  memory  of  yet 
another  picture  captured  his  over-wrought  brain.  He  re- 
called an  engraving  of  Paul  and  Virginia  which  showed  Vir- 
ginia nestling  in  Paul’s  arms  while  he  bore  her  from  boulder 
to  boulder  across  a mountain  stream  like  this. 

Just  then  the  sunshine  flamed  out  again  and  Harry  Coggin 
espied  a marvel.  Deep  down  in  the  water,  on  Christina’s 
reflected  hand,  there  shone  an  intensely  bright  point  of  fire, 
no  bigger  than  a star  but  brighter  than  a midsummer  sun. 
Astonished  exceedingly,  Harry  involuntarily  strained  still 
more  closely  to  him  the  sweet  body,  which  seemed  to  be  only 
sleeping.  He  glanced  at  her  left  hand.  On  the  fourth  finger 
gleamed  a ring,  an  engagement  ring,  a twist  of  gold  claw- 
ing one  large  diamond. 

Hot  blood  rushed  to  Harry’s  cheeks.  Christina  was  be- 
trothed. Christina  had  a lover.  He  marveled  that  he  had 
not  noticed  the  ring  before.  As  she  knelt  in  front  of  her  altar, 
half  hidden  in  her  loosened  hair,  it  was  hardly  surprising 


THE  HARE 


390 

that  he  had  not  seen  it.  Nor  could  he  have  observed  it  while 
she  walked,  neatly  gloved,  to  the  Wasserblase.  But  at  dinner, 
at  supper,  at  their  open-air  breakfast,  at  the  piano  . . . 

Why  had  she  not  told  him?  Was  it  quite  fair  that  she 
should  have  demanded  to  know  whether  he  was  affianced  and 
not  have  breathed  the  lightest  hint  concerning  her  own 
betrothal?  Harry  felt  so  much  resentment  at  her  closeness 
that  he  was  on  the  point  of  waking  her  and  of  asking,  “Why 
didn’t  you  tell  me?’’  Then  it  came  home  to  him,  like  a 
sharp  and  sickening  pain  beginning  again  after  a brief  res- 
pite, that  he  could  not  wake  Christina  and  that  she  could  never 
hear  his  voice  again.  He  knew  that  he  was  carrying  what 
was  hideously  called  a dead  body. 

At  that  moment  Henry  Coggin  rebelled  against  God.  The 
heaviest  strokes  of  divine  chastisement,  falling  on  his  own 
shoulders  and  lacerating  his  own  flesh,  would  not  have  drawn 
a murmur  from  his  lips;  but  how  could  God,  the  just  God, 
the  loving  God,  have  brought  Himself  to  slay  Christina,  after 
a night  of  anguish,  in  the  flower  of  her  young  life  and  love? 
He  made  haste  to  banish  this  presumptuous  reproach  against 
the  All-Wise  and  All-Merciful;  and  instantly  there  broke 
over  his  dry  heart  a cooling,  healing  wave  of  hope  and  con- 
solation. 

The  burden  in  his  clasp  might  be  a dead  body ; but 
Christina  Rabe  was  not  dead.  Down  there  in  the  pool  the 
tiny  point  of  light  burned  more  intensely  than  ever  as  the 
increasing  glory  of  the  sun  focussed  itself  more  and  more 
greedily  in  the  midst  of  her  diamond,  like  a golden  bee  search- 
ing the  heart  of  a white  flower.  Harry  stared  down  into  the 
pool.  The  star-small,  sun-bright  point  of  white  and  sparkling 
fire  shone  up  at  him  from  the  depths.  He  knew  that,  while 
he  watched,  the  swift  smooth  ice-cold  flood  distilled  from  the 
high  mountain  snows  was  pushing  over  and  under  and  around 
that  tiny  white  fire.  Yet  it  burned  on  still.  He  breathed  to 


THE  RAVEN 


391 


himself  in  deepest  reverence  the  words  of  Holy  Writ:  “Many 
waters  cannot  quench  love  nor  can  the  floods  drown  it.”  Like 
the  flame  of  a fair  white  candle  which  falters  and  slips  down 
from  the  frail  wick  into  nothingness  at  the  mere  breath  of  the 
outside  air,  Christina’s  physical  life  had  quailed  and  flickered 
out  of  her  slender  frame  at  the  mere  vastness  of  midnight  on 
the  mountains.  Yet  Harry  knew  that  her  love  lived  still. 
Its  white  radiance  burned  on  serenely,  and  where  the  hurry- 
ing stream  of  Time  chilled  and  darkened  into  the  river  of 
Death  that  unquenchable  sun  of  Christina ’s  love  shone  all  the 
more  proudly  through  the  cold  and  gloom.  Harry  vaguely 
wondered  how  there  could  be  any  man  found  to  doubt  the 
immortality  of  the  soul.  If  the  Immortal  God  was  Immortal 
Love,  and  if  Christina,  this  love-bright  Christina,  was  God’s 
handiwork  and  God’s  child,  how  could  she  be  other  than 
immortal  too  ? 

A rush  of  pity  swirled  Harry’s  thoughts  away  from  Chris- 
tina’s love  to  Christina’s  lover.  What  would  he  say,  what 
would  he  do,  when  he  heard  the  news?  On  this  cloudless 
Sunday  afternoon  he  did  not  even  know  that  Christina  was 
lost.  Harry  pictured  the  unknown  lover  as  rich  and  noble, 
dashing  and  handsome  and  gay,  like  a splendid  young  cavalry 
officer  whom  he  had  watched  careering  on  a superb  white 
charger  outside  the  Hofburg  in  Vienna.  Perhaps,  at  this  very 
moment,  Christina’s  lover  was  seated  at  a table  writing  her 
a letter.  Perhaps  he  was  gazing  at  her  picture.  Perhaps  he 
was  pressing  to  his  lips,  like  a lover  in  a poem  or  in  a picture, 
a raven  lock  from  these  very  tresses  now  crushed  against 
Harry’s  cheek. 

The  broad  mirror  of  deep  water  lay  still  unblurred  at 
Harry’s  feet.  Once  more  he  took  into  his  mind  that  Paul- 
and-Virginia  picture  of  the  white  beauty  nestling  against  the 
weather-tanned  youth’s  shoulder.  Suddenly  he  started  and 
almost  fell.  Like  a blow  between  the  eyes,  the  knowledge 


392 


The  hare 


had  come  to  him  that  he,  in  the  unknown  lover’s  place,  was 
clasping  Christina  in  his  arms,  encircling  her  waist,  pressing 
her  cheek  against  his  own. 

As  if  somebody  had  surprised  him  in  a base  act  of  treachery, 
he  wrenched  his  gaze  away  from  the  accusing  pool,  and  looked 
around  him.  But  the  waterfall  hissed  shame  upon  him  and 
the  brooding  mountains  stared  at  him  with  white  and  awful 
eyes.  Harry  Coggin  turned  to  flee.  A leaping  stride  bore 
him  over  the  mid-most  channel  and  a few  moments  later  he 
plunged  into  the  decent  shade  of  the  kindly  pine-wood. 

That  Sunday  afternoon,  as  the  faithful  were  chattering  out- 
side the  church  and  the  bell  was  jangling  for  Vespers,  a child 
shrieked  out  “Look.”  Straightway  there  broke  forth  a con- 
fusion of  cries : ‘ ‘ She ’s  found ! ” 4 4 It ’s  the  Englishman.  ’ * 
1 1 Glory  be  to  God.  ” “ She ’s  saved,  she ’s  saved ! ’ ’ 

Like  a man  on  stilts,  who  takes  longer  and  longer  and 
quicker  and  quicker  strides  when  he  is  about  to  fall,  Harry 
came  down  the  steep  road  at  a pace  so  astonishing  that  no- 
body ran  forward  to  help  him.  The  able-bodied  men  were, 
without  one  exception,  still  beating  the  mountains,  but  the 
children  and  women  and  graybeards  made  a large  crowd,  be- 
cause those  who  could  not  search  had  come  to  pray.  "With 
increasing  heartiness  of  gratitude  to  the  Almighty  they  multi- 
plied their  pious  exclamations. 

What  they  saw  was  a sight  which  might  almost  have 
loosened  the  tongues  of  the  dumb.  They  saw  a youth  bearing 
down  upon  them  with  strides  of  a demi-god.  Bare-headed  and 
with  eyes  which  flashed  like  an  archangel’s  he  came  grandly 
on.  In  his  embrace  they  saw  a pale  maiden,  swooning  per- 
haps, with  wonderful  black  hair  streaming  backward  in  the 
breeze.  By  that  time  all  the  valley  had  come  to  believe  that 
the  young  English  mountaineer  and  the  beautiful  Viennese 
actress  were  lovers  whom  some  foolish  quarrel  had  briefly 


THE  RAVEN 


393 


estranged;  and  even  the  least  romantic  beholder  felt  a lump 
in  the  throat  and  a mist  in  the  eyes  as  the  wilful  maid  was 
borne  home  hiding  her  face  against  the  youth’s  strong  breast. 
They  did  not  know  that  they  were  looking  at  a man  who  had 
eaten  nothing  save  a thin  wafer  of  carrot  and  a small  knob 
of  bread  for  twenty-four  hours ; at  a man  who  had  climbed  a 
dizzy  and  perilous  peak  the  day  before  and  had  endured  a 
night  of  torture;  at  a man  whose  hands  were  pricking  and 
burning  as  if  he  had  been  stung  by  giant  nettles,  whose  brow 
was  streaming  with  sweat,  whose  arms  seemed  about  to  snap 
like  dry  sticks,  whose  feet  stumped  like  uncloven  hoofs,  whose 
heart  was  ready  to  burst  and  to  drown  his  down-stumbled 
carcase  in  a scalding  pool  of  his  own  blood.  Nor  did  they 
know  that  they  were  looking  also  at  a sweetly-clinging  lady 
who  had  died  without  beholding  that  golden  Sunday’s  dawn. 

As  Harry  broke  into  their  midst  the  people  fell  back,  leav- 
ing a clear  way  right  into  the  porch  of  the  church.  They 
had  barely  time  to  pity  his  long  staggering  strides,  like  the  gait 
of  a drunken  man,  when  he  was  lost  to  sight.  With  one  ac- 
cord they  streamed  after  him,  along  the  short  high  nave,  just 
as  Father  Tobel  emerged  from  the  sacristy  and  approached  the 
high  altar.  At  the  same  moment  the  village  musicians  in 
their  wooden  gallery,  not  knowing  that  anything  strange  had 
happened,  began  a solemn  prelude.  These  humble  Tyrolese 
who  had  learned,  during  the  long  nights  of  winter,  to  play 
their  fiddles,  their  ’cello,  their  bassoon  and  their  horn  more 
than  well,  were  assembled  to  adorn  the  Sunday  within  the  Oc- 
tave of  the  Assumption.  As  their  music  gushed  forth  like 
cool  waters  from  the  moss-grown  conches  of  a Roman  fountain 
Harry’s  trance  was  broken.  He  stopped  and  stared  around 
him  desperately.  Then  his  iron  will  and  his  mighty  strength 
went  utterly  from  him.  He  lurched  forward  and  was  about 
to  fall.  But  in  that  full-fraught  moment  the  truth  had 
flamed  upon  the  people.  Shoulders,  arms,  hands  were  all 


394 


THE  HARE 


around  Henry  Coggin:  and  when  he  fainted  clean  away  the 
strong,  clever,  gentle  women  had  already  drawn  Christina 
from  his  yielding  clasp. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Fraulein  Rabe,  who  had  always 
been  denied  her  darling  wish  to  sing  just  once  in  a tragic 
opera,  lay  quietly  before  a marble  altar,  with  the  priest  of 
God  in  vestments  of  white  and  gold  bending  over  her,  with 
violin  lilting  and  throbbing  in  the  perfumed  air,  and  with  her 
well-beloved  lying  at  her  side. 


CHAPTER  VI 


NEST  morning,  when  Lena  softly  opened  the  Eng- 
lishman’s door  to  make  sure  that  he  had  not  died 
of  strain  and  grief,  a swish  of  cold  water  smacked 
her  in  the  face  and  she  retreated  in  modest  confusion  with- 
out Harry  knowing  that  anybody  had  entered  the  room. 
He  had  slept  like  a log  and  was  now  as  hungry  as  a lion. 
The  aches  in  his  arms  and  thighs  were  terrible  and  his  feet 
still  seemed  to  be  most  painfully  estranged  from  the  rest 
of  his  body.  But  he  did  not,  on  awakening  and  while  splash- 
ing himself  with  icy  water,  experience  mental  or  spiritual 
anguish.  Christina  was  dead,  like  Isolda  and  Cleopatra, 
romantically  dead,  tragically  dead.  It  seemed,  however,  that 
her  life  and  her  death  belonged  to  very  long  ago. 

Harry  hobbled  downstairs  and  would  have  sought  the  usual 
bread  and  coffee  in  the  usual  room  if  Father  Tobel  had  not 
quietly  taken  his  arm  and  led  him  into  the  presbytery  proper. 
The  priest  lifted  a tin  cover  and  displayed  a vast  omelette, 
with  many  dice  of  ham  embedded  in  its  folds,  which  Anton 
had  declared  to  be  the  famous  English  breakfast-dish  called 
bacon-and-eggs.  Alongside  the  omelette  stood  a silver  tea- 
pot, with  a straining-basket  hung  round  the  spout.  Although 
the  inn  boasted  its  own  little  dairy,  the  old  priest  proudly 
poured  out  a cup  of  tea  unclouded  with  milk  or  cream  and 
Harry  did  not  like  to  ask  for  either.  The  tea  was  delicate 
and  revivifying,  the  enormous  omelette  did  not  prove  too 
big  and  the  toasted  bread  recalled  Harry’s  breakfasts  in  that 
other  pious  house,  the  old  chapel  at  Bulford.  Indeed  the 

395 


396 


THE  HARE 


breakfasts  in  Bulford  seemed  much  more  recent  than  any  of 
the  meals  Harry  had  eaten  in  the  speisesaal  of  the  inn  next 
door. 

While  the  kindly  host  was  greatly  relieved  to  see  his  guest 
eating  and  drinking  so  heartily,  he  could  not  help  feeling  that 
the  boasted  English  coolness  went  too  far.  He  would  have 
hated  a breakdown  and  a scene:  but  he  had  not  expected 
heartlessness.  He  pushed  a jar  of  honey  towards  Harry,  who 
helped  himself  liberally.  Suddenly,  however,  the  young  man 
dropped  his  spoon  on  his  plate  and  asked  very  anxiously: 

‘ ‘ Have  I missed  Mass  ? ’ ’ 

“Of  course  you  have,”  the  priest  answered.  “Don’t  you 
see  I have  been  eating  some  of  your  English  schinken-mit- 
eier?”  Father  Tobel  spoke  sharply;  because  callousness  be- 
came hateful  when  it  strutted  arm-in-arm  with  piety.  Then, 
remembering  that  his  long  life  had  not  yet  shown  him  every 
type  of  human  nature,  he  added  kindly:  “You  seem  to  have  a 
great  devotion  to  Holy  Mass,  my  son.  I think  you  have  heard 
Mass  every  day  since  you  came  among  us.  Is  it  your  regular 
practice?” 

“Except  in  Old  Prussia,  where  I could  not  always  find  a 
Catholic  church,  I have  heard  Mass  every  day  for  more  than 
a year,”  said  Harry.  He  did  not  speak  boastingly  but  with 
self-reproach  for  his  indolence  in  rising  from  bed  that  day 
so  late. 

“I  promise  that  to-morrow  morning  you  shall  be  in  time,” 
said  Father  Tobel.  “I  will  wake  you  myself.  My  son,  this 
is  a suitable  moment  for  a suggestion  which  I want  to  make — 
I might  say  a request,  and  almost  a command.  To-morrow 
morning  will  you  not  receive  Holy  Communion?  And  will 
you  not  offer  your  Communion  for  the  poor  soul  of  your 
friend  whose  mortal  remains  you  bore  hither  from  the  moun- 
tains? I see  you  are  a devout  young  man.  For  all  I know 
you  frequently  approach  the  Sacraments.  But  if,  from  any 


THE  RAVEN  397 

cause,  you  have  neglected  your  duty  I will  hear  your  con- 
fession this  morning.  ’ ’ 

To  the  old  man’s  deep  grief,  Harry  failed  him  with  the 
expected  “Yes.”  Indeed,  the  eyes  into  which  the  priest  was 
gazing  filled  with  so  much  perplexity  and  trouble  that  Father 
Tobel  felt  sure  he  had  crashed  through  a thin  shell  of  out- 
ward piety  into  an  inward  moral  chaos.  As  a good  physician 
of  souls  he  faced  his  task  and  said  most  earnestly: 

“If,  in  spite  of  your  daily  church-going,  there  is  something 
in  the  way,  something  which  keeps  you  back  from  the  altar- 
rails,  surely  this  is  the  time  to  be  rid  of  it,  this  is  the  time 
to  put  yourself  right  with  Almighty  God.  Has  it  not  just 
been  proved  to  you  in  the  most  terrible  manner  that  Death  is 
no  respecter  of  Youth?  For  your  own  soul’s  sake,  break  this 
chain,  here  and  now.  But  no.  I will  say  rather  for  her  sake. 
If  she  were  here,  asking  you  for  bread  to  eat  or  asking  for 
your  arm  to  lean  upon,  would  you  refuse  her?  You  can  do 
no  more  for  her  body.  But  you  can  help  her  soul,  her  poor 
soul.  Can  you  refuse  to  offer  your  communion  for  Christina 
Babe ’s  soul  to-morrow  ? ’ ’ 

Father  Tobel  rose  and  leaned  across  the  narrow  table  to 
lay  a pleading  hand  on  Harry’s  shoulder.  He  was  prepared 
to  see  what  he  had  seen  more  than  once  in  that  room  before : 
to  see  the  sinner  bow  his  head,  and  to  watch  over  him  with 
loving  prayer  while  the  devil  fought  the  last  round  with  all 
his  arts  and  all  his  might.  No  such  thing  happened.  At  the 
touch  of  the  priest’s  hand,  Henry  Coggin  sprang  up  and  re- 
coiled as  if  he  had  been  detected  in  an  imposture : and  instead 
of  uttering  the  expected  “I  cannot,  I cannot”  or  “God  help- 
ing me,  I will,  ’ ’ he  said  simply : 

“I  am  not  a Catholic.” 

Father  Tobel’s  was  a stolid  nature,  not  easily  annoyed  and 
not  easily  surprised : but  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  in  Harry ’s 
answer  it  became  plain  that  he  was  no  less  vexed  than  as- 


398 


THE  HARE 


tonislied.  With  a strange  little  grunt,  which  he  had  learned 
from  his  peasant  mother,  he  moved  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  It  displeased  him  extremely  that  he  should  have  made 
such  a mistake.  Then,  all  of  a sudden  he  ceased  to  feel  an- 
gry with  himself  and  began  to  be  angry  with  Coggin.  Turn- 
ing half  round  he  said  rather  sharply : 

“I  don’t  understand.  I understand  your  English  Protes- 
tants whose  principles  do  not  allow  them  to  attend  Catholic 
worship  because  they  believe  it  to  be  superstitious  and  idola- 
trous. I understand  your  English  unbelievers  who  are  inter- 
ested spectators  of  our  religious  services  and  customs,  just  as 
I myself  might  be  interestd  to  witness  the  strange  rites  of 
some  savage  tribe  in  Africa  or  of  some  ancient  race  in  Asia. 
But  this  case  of  yours,  mein  Herr  . . . well,  I don’t  under- 
stand it.” 

Harry  did  not  answer : so  the  old  man  turned  again  to  the 
window  and  stood  with  puckered  brows.  He  subscribed  to  a 
theological  review  but  did  not  often  cut  the  leaves.  Indeed 
he  would  have  known  almost  nothing  of  current  ecclesiastical 
controversies  if  it  had  not  been  that  the  bishop  of  the  diocese 
was  one  of  those  gloomy  prelates  who  love  to  usher  in  each 
succeeding  Lent  with  a pastoral  letter  bewailing  the  deadly 
errors  of  the  time.  Father  Tobel  vaguely  remembered  that 
the  episcopal  cup  of  sorrow  had  once  been  filled  fuller  with 
bitterness  by  certain  wilful  Englishmen  who  taught  that  you 
could  be  anti-Protestant  and  anti-Papist,  and  truly  Catholic 
at  one  and  the  same  time.  This  old  priest,  however,  was  a 
plain  man  and  he  was  determined  not  to  split  theological  hairs 
with  anybody.  Returning  to  the  table  he  said: 

“This  is  not  the  time  to  argue  about  religion.  I ask  your 
pardon  for  my  mistake.  Seeing  you  so  regularly  at  Mass  I 
took  you  for  a Catholic.  Now,  I have  another  request  to 
make.  Will  you  guide  me  to  the  spot  where  you  found  . . . 
the  body?  At  present  you  are  the  only  human  being  who 


THE  RAVEN  399 

knows  . . . where  she  died.  You  do  not  need  to  fear  that  I 
shall  discuss  religion  on  the  road.  ’ ’ 

Although  Harry’s  limbs  still  ached  and  his  feet  were  very 
sore  he  was  glad  to  have  the  chance  of  serving  Father  Tobel, 
so  he  answered  that  he  could  start  at  once. 

Stoutly  shod  and  grasping  short  ash-poles  they  were  soon 
on  their  way  up  the  valley.  One  more  rainless  day  had  nearly 
silenced  the  lesser  brooks ; but  the  torrent,  fed  from  the  white 
breasts  of  the  snow-mountains,  still  crooned  in  Harry’s  ears. 
As  they  left  the  last  farm  behind,  the  priest,  wishing  to  be 
companionable,  said: 

“Perhaps  you  will  think  it  strange,  but  I have  never  been  so 
high  up  the  valley  before.  You  see,  I am  mountain-bred  and 
these  deserts  do  not  tempt  me.  When  I go  to  Vienna  I go 
to  see  the  pictures  and  statues;  but  there  are  thousands  of 
leisured  people  in  Vienna  who  have  never  entered  a museum 
or  gallery  in  their  lives.  What  we  can  see  any  day  we  are 
inclined  never  to  see  at  all.  I suppose  it  is  the  same  in 
London.  ’ ’ 

“I  have  never  been  in  London,”  said  Harry  quickly.  He 
spoke  the  words  out  of  his  meticulous  honesty  and  from  a dread 
of  being  once  more  misunderstood:  but  they  fell  on  Father 
Tobel ’s  ears  like  a rebuff.  With  a shrug  so  slight  that  the 
Englishman  did  not  notice  it  the  benign  old  man  merely  gave 
up  the  attempt  at  conversation  and  did  not  speak  again  until 
they  reached  the  boulder-strewn  pool  where  Harry  had  paused 
the  day  before  with  Christina  in  his  arms.  Then,  wondering 
greatly,  he  asked : 

“How  did  you  cross  this  deep  and  wide  channel,  here  in 
the  middle  of  the  stream  ? ’ ’ 

“I  cannot  tell,”  Harry  answered.  He  made  a foot-bridge 
with  the  stout  ash-poles  and  helped  the  priest  over.  And 
again  they  walked  on,  in  silence. 

After  threading  the  dim  tunnel  above  the  torrent  the  two 


400 


THE  HARE 


climbers  came  out  into  the  green  cirque  where  Christina  had 
spent  her  last  hours.  The  crucifix  of  the  rosary  was  still 
tapping  the  rock  with  each  suck  and  sigh  of  the  warm  air, 
and  the  colored  pictures  were  still  on  their  ledges.  Father 
Tobel,  however,  seemed  to  have  eyes  for  nothing  but  the 
little  ax.  He  seized  it  so  eagerly  that  he  seemed  almost  to 
have  made  the  long  journey  for  that  little  ax  alone.  Only 
after  he  had  brightened  the  blade  upon  his  black  sleeve  and 
had  gazed  long  upon  it  did  the  priest  enter  the  niche  and 
take  down  the  engravings  and  the  beads. 

Harry  watched  the  rough  hand  plucking  these  pious  objects 
like  flowers  from  the  face  of  the  rock.  Instantly  he  was 
overwhelmed  by  a sense  of  Christina’s  life  and  death.  Until 
this  moment  his  memory  of  yesterday’s  events  had  been  lag- 
ging far  behind  his  plain  consciousness,  like  a great  white 
ship  veiled  in  the  steam  of  the  black  tug  which  hauls  it  along. 
But,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  to-day  vanished.  Only  yes- 
terday was  true.  All  the  past,  the  present  and  the  future, 
all  time  and  all  eternity  were  summed  up  in  that  majestic, 
dolorous  lovely  hour.  How  could  this  narrow  pit  contain  such 
a surging,  urging  tide  of  grandeur  and  mystery?  Why  did 
not  its  walls  split  asunder  and  crumble  down? 

When,  holding  the  ax  in  his  arms  like  a rescued  child,  the 
priest  knelt  with  deepest  reverence  before  Christina’s  altar, 
Harry’s  brief  ecstasy  ended.  A dull  anguish,  as  heavy  as  a 
mountain  rolled  and  settled  in  its  place.  He  was  about  to  fall 
on  his  knees  at  Father  Tobel’s  side,  but  shame  restrained  him. 
He,  Henry  Coggin,  had  no  part  and  lot  in  this  rough  ora- 
tory, this  blessed  place  of  holy  pictures  and  crucifixes  and 
rosaries.  He,  Henry  Coggin,  was  only  a looker-on  at  the 
Catholic  Church.  The  blacksmith’s  boy,  Caspar,  who  ran 
errands  for  the  inn  and  helped  to  clean  the  altar-candlesticks, 
could  receive  the  Holy  Communion  to-morrow  and  offer  It 


THE  RAVEN  401 

for  Christina  Rabe’s  soul:  but  he,  Henry  Coggin,  must  say 
“I  cannot.” 

In  agony  of  mind  and  spirit,  Harry  kept  step  with  Father 
Tobel  down  through  the  tunnel  and  back  to  the  marge  of 
the  torrent.  That  he  himself  was  outside  the  Church,  that  he 
might  at  any  moment  die  tragically  like  Christina,  that  he 
might  be  damned  for  trifling  with  the  most  sacred  of  all 
things  . . . these  and  the  like  thoughts  did  not  enter  his 
head.  The  sole  fount  of  his  anguish,  a fount  more  cruel  than 
scalding  water  and  more  bitter  than  gall,  was  the  knowledge 
that,  if  only  he  had  been  a Catholic,  he  could  still  have  done 
something  for  Christina. 

In  the  midst  of  the  pool,  before  facing  the  ash-pole  foot- 
bridge, Father  Tobel  asked  leave  to  sit  down  and  rest.  Harry 
too  sat  down,  on  the  very  boulder  where  he  had  beheld  the 
reflection  of  the  dead  Virginia.  And  there  it  pleased  the  good 
God  to  bestow  upon  Henry  Coggin  a great  grace. 

Gazing  a little  down-stream  Harry  saw  a place  where  the 
smoothly-sliding  water  was  gashed  open  by  some  jagged  rocks. 
Light  clots  of  white  spume,  as  big  as  butterflies,  sprang  into 
the  air  and  sank  back  again  into  the  torrent.  Bubbling, 
creaming  wavelets  smacked  the  black  rock  and  merrily  played 
leap-frog  with  the  wavelets  that  came  after.  All  this  they  did 
to  a cheerful  music,  as  of  hundreds  of  silver  kettles  singing  on 
bright  hearths. 

Harry  remembered  the  racing  and  chattering  waters  of  the 
Skilbourne,  near  Bulford  town — the  sweet  Skilbourne  on  whose 
banks,  thirteen  years  before,  he  had  found  courage  to  demand 
Holy  Baptism.  And,  as  he  recalled  that  sacred  moment,  a 
strange  idea  filled  Harry’s  mind.  He  pictured  the  Skilbourne, 
on  that  May  afternoon  of  long  ago,  splashing  under  the  gray 
arch  of  the  bridge  and  flashing  through  lush  meadows  to  join 
the  broad  Deme.  He  pictured  the  Deme  flowing  tranquilly 


402 


THE  HARE 


onward  until  its  cool,  sweet  flood  mingled  with  the  tumbling 
sea.  He  pictured  the  fierce  sun  of  that  wonderful  May-time 
flaming  upon  the  green  waves  until  they  yielded  up  thin  veils 
of  vapor  to  curtain  the  garish  heavens.  In  his  imagination  he 
saw  those  high  clouds  brushed  along  by  the  west  wind  until 
they  were  caught  and  torn  in  the  sharp  ice-peaks  of  the  glit- 
tering Alps.  He  saw  them  settling  silently  on  the  tops  of  the 
mountains  like  soft  down  from  the  wings  of  doves  without 
number.  He  knew  that  some  Alpine  snows  remained  summer 
after  summer  unmelted.  But  these  burning  August  noons 
were  unchaining  many  an  old  snowdrift;  and  Harry,  over- 
wrought by  fatigue  and  pain  and  sorrow,  did  not  resist  the 
fancy  that  the  old  waters  of  his  baptism,  after  wide  wander- 
ings and  long  imprisonment,  were  at  this  very  moment  flow- 
ing under  his  eyes  once  more  and  filling  his  ears  with  a mes- 
sage which  God  Himself  had  whispered  to  them  in  the  radiant 
silence  of  the  dazzling  heights.  Their  challenge  was  so  clear 
and  their  voice  so  heavenly  that  his  timidity  vanished  like  a 
snowflake  in  a sunbeam.  Moved  by  something  mightier  than 
his  own  will,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  said  loudly  to  the 
brooding  priest : 

‘ ‘ I want  to  be  a Catholic.  ’ ’ 

For  several  moments  Father  Tobel  was  too  much  astonished 
to  answer.  At  last  he  uttered  the  one  word: 

“Why?” 

* ‘ I want  to  be  . . . what  she  was,  ’ ’ cried  Harry  desperately. 
He  feared  that  he  was  about  to  be  repelled.  “I  want  to  be 
like  you  and  like  the  others.  I want  to  receive  Holy  Com- 
munion to-morrow,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life : and  to  offer 
It  for  her.  ’ ’ 

The  priest  bowed  his  head  over  the  ax  which  rested  on  his 
knees.  There  was  a reason,  known  to  himself  alone,  why 
Harry’s  words  filled  him  with  unspeakable  thankfulness  to 
God.  But  he  soon  remembered  the  obligations  of  his  sacred 


THE  RAVEN 


403 


calling.  Dwelling  amidst  an  entirely  Catholic  population, 
he  had  only  once  in  his  life  before  received  a convert  into  the 
Church.  This  Englishman  was  evidently  a youth  of  excep- 
tional temperament  and  the  case  was  not  an  easy  one.  Father 
Tobel  meditated  for  a long  time.  At  last  he  said : 

“My  young  friend,  there  are  learned  and  holy  men  who 
would  tell  you  that  the  mere  desire  to  help,  by  offering  a 
communion,  some  soul  which  has  been  dear  to  you,  is  not  by 
itself  a sufficient  motive,  a satisfactory  disposition  for  your 
being  reconciled  to  the  Church.  In  a sense,  they  would  be 
right.  But  at  this  solemn  moment  I look  into  your  face,  I 
hearken  to  your  eager  tones  and  I lift  up  my  soul  to  Almighty 
God  for  guidance.  It  is  the  very  essence  of  our  holy  faith 
that  our  Divine  Lord  thought  not  of  Himself  but  of  others — of 
us  poor  sinners.  For  a year  you  have  been  hearing  Mass 
but  you  have  evaded  the  great  decision  until  now.  In  making 
this  tremendous  choice  you  are  moved  not  so  much  by  fear 
for  your  own  soul  but  by  truly  Christlike  love  for  the  soul 
of  another.  I cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  correct  you. 
My  son,  my  dear  son,  I can  only  bid  you  welcome  and  pray 
God  to  bless  you.  Suffer  me  to  be  silent  while  I thank  God  for 
a favor  which  to-morrow  you  shall  understand  . . . Let  us  go.” 

"When  the  roof  of  pine-boughs  was  again  over  their  heads 
Father  Tobel  began  to  instruct  Harry  in  the  Catholic  religion 
and  was  amazed  at  the  extent  and  depth  of  the  catechumen’s 
knowledge.  Not  even  on  one  point  was  Harry  ignorant  of 
sound  doctrine.  All  that  the  young  man  lacked  was  ease  of 
coordination — the  Catholic  sureness  and  swiftness  in  perceiv- 
ing separate  dogmas  as  living  stones  in  one  symmetrical  temple 
of  truth.  Harry  was  like  a man  reading  aloud  an  epic  poem, 
with  a complete  understanding  of  the  story  and  of  the  diction 
but  with  only  a dim  sense  of  the  meter,  of  the  light  or  heavy 
accents.  The  Catholic  idiom  came  stiffly  from  his  Puritan 
lips.  The  priest,  however,  knew  that  Rome  is  not  learnt  in  a 


404 


THE  HARE 


day;  and  he  took  care  not  to  clog  and  belittle  Harry’s  first 
moments  of  faith  by  fussy  corrections  of  trifles.  And  when 
he  moved  onward  from  theology  to  piety  he  marveled  at  the 
young  man’s  hunger  and  thirst  for  the  sacraments  and  for 
all  things  holy. 

As  they  neared  the  village,  Father  Tobel  asked : “Will  your 
family  or  friends  in  England  be  angry  at  the  step  you  are 
taking?  Will  it  involve  you  in  temporal  loss?” 

“I  have  no  relations  anywhere,”  Harry  answered,  “but  I 
have  a benefactor,  to  whom  I owe  almost  everything.  With- 
out his  aid  I should,  at  this  moment,  be  working  hard  in  a 
small  country  town,  without  a friend,  without  prospects.  My 
benefactor  sent  me  to  travel  for  fifteen  months  in  Germany. 
He  has  some  plan  for  my  future  but  I have  no  idea  what  it 
may  be.  My  turning  Catholic  may  or  may  not  upset  it.” 

“Almighty  God  often  tests  and  toughens  converts  by  tem- 
poral trials, ” said  the  priest.  “At  least,  so  I have  heard.  If 
you  should  be  in  any  sore  strait,  write  to  me.  What  I can  do 
will  be  very  little : but  our  Master  will  do  the  rest.  My  son, 
you  move  me  strangely.  Let  me  grasp  your  hand.  I feel 
that  God  has  some  great  work  for  you  to  do  in  the  world.” 

Father  Tobel  was  looking  full  into  the  young  man ’s  eyes  as 
he  spoke:  and  he  suddenly  beheld  a new  wonder.  Harry’s 
pensive  and  docile  face  was  transfigured  into  an  angel’s.  He 
towered  higher  and  seemed,  in  a single  moment,  to  have  be- 
come more  than  mortal,  as  if  the  very  Spirit  of  God  wholly 
possessed  him.  In  the  presence  of  this  ecstasy  the  priest  stood 
still  and  feared.  He  did  not  know  that  far  away,  in  green 
England,  near  an  old  town,  there  was  a quiet  spot  called  Yel- 
lowhammer  Lane,  strangely  like  the  sheltered  hollow  where 
they  were  standing.  He  did  not  know  that,  fourteen  years 
before,  another  clergyman  had  grasped  this  angelic  youth’s 
hand  and  had  uttered  almost  the  self-same  words : “ I feel  that 
God  has  some  great  work  for  you  to  do  in  the  world.” 


CHAPTER  VII 


ON  Tuesday,  August  22nd,  the  day  of  his  reception 
into  the  Church,  Henry  Coggin  arose  even  earlier 
than  usual.  It  had  been  arranged  that  the  short 
ceremony  should  take  place  before  Mass,  in  the  chapel  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Seven  Dolors,  and  that  the  convert  should  make 
his  first  Communion  immediately  afterwards. 

Overnight  Harry  had  packed  his  valise  and  completed  his 
simple  preparations  for  departure.  Without  giving  a reason, 
Father  Tobel  had  commanded  that  he  should  leave  the  inn, 
on  the  first  stage  of  his  journey  back  to  England,  after  the 
mid-day  meal. 

Kneeling  beside  the  bed  in  his  tidy  room,  Harry  awaited  the 
promised  knock  at  his  door.  The  coming  event  filled  him  with 
awe.  He  whose  humility  had  kept  him  back  from  claiming 
even  the  meanest  place  in  the  Church  of  England  could  hardly 
believe  it  possible  that  he  would  soon  be  admitted  to  full  com- 
munion  with  the  One  Holy  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Church: 
that  he  would  be  of  the  same  faith  and  the  same  fold  as  his 
patron  saint,  Mr.  Redding : that  he  would  be  no  longer  a mere 
looker-on  at  the  ineffable  mysteries:  that  he  would  have  as 
much  right  as  the  Pope  himself  to  the  holy  sacraments. 

Across  this  vast  and  overpowering  prospect  of  lofty  pillars 
and  soaring  roofs,  the  form  of  Christina  flitted,  at  first  no  big- 
ger than  an  elf’s.  But  as  Harry  recalled  the  dead  maiden’s 
vigil  before  her  crucifix  and  her  pictures  of  saints,  Mr.  Red- 
ding’s figure  weakened  and  receded.  To  be  one  with  Chris- 
tina in  faith  and  in  the  love  and  service  of  God  became  the 

405 


406 


THE  HARE 


highest  bliss.  It  was  cold  in  this  mountain  bed-room,  four 

« 

thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  Harry  shivered  as  he  thought 
of  the  loneliness  which  awaited  him  in  the  empty  church. 
How  good  it  would  have  been  to  feel  that  Christina  was  kneel- 
ing somewhere  near  throughout  this  ordeal.  How  hearty 
would  have  been  her  joy  in  his  conversion,  how  warm  her  hand- 
clasp, how  bright  her  welcome.  And  yet,  if  Christina  had  not 
strayed  into  that  chill  cave  of  death  amidst  the  mountains,  he, 
Henry  Coggin,  would  not  now  be  awaiting  Father  Tobel’s 
knock.  Before  he  could  feel  the  force  of  this  new  thought, 
the  summons  came.  Harry  opened  the  door  and  followed 
the  priest  down  the  dark  stairs,  along  the  narrow  passage, 
through  the  sacristy  and  into  the  dim  church.  To  reach  the 
chapel  of  the  Seven  Dolors  it  was  necessary  to  cross  the  nave. 
To  his  surprise  the  convert  suddenly  felt  the  priest’s  strong 
hand  gripping  him  by  the  arm  as  if  to  thrust  him  past  some 
danger  or  to  prevent  him  from  stumbling.  Glancing  to  the 
left  Harry  saw  that  the  nave  was  not  empty,  as  he  had  pic- 
tured it.  Supported  on  trestles  and  covered  by  a black-and- 
silver  pall,  a coffin  stood  within  a fence  of  tall  yellow  candles. 
A few  women  knelt  near  it ; and,  as  Harry  stepped  near  them, 
one  young  girl  broke  into  piteous  weeping.  He  turned  rever- 
ently aside  from  her  grief.  During  his  hundreds  of  early 
morning  visits  to  Catholic  churches,  Harry  had  chanced  many 
times  upon  a catafalque  with  its  mourners.  Obeying  Father 
Tobel’s  imperious  hand,  he  continued  his  journey  and  soon 
knelt  beneath  the  image  of  the  sword-pierced  Virgin. 

As  his  meager  library  boasted  only  a single  copy  of  the 
“Forma  Receptionis  Neo-conversi, ” Father  Tobel  waived  pomp 
and  circumstance,  to  the  extent  of  telling  the  Englishman,  not 
in  Latin  but  in  the  vernacular,  to  share  the  book  by  looking 
over  his  shoulder.  Harry,  indeed,  acted  as  a kind  of  acolyte 
at  his  own  conversion.  He  said  the  hymn  Veni  Creator 
Spiritus  alternately  with  the  priest,  responded  to  the  versicles 


THE  RAVEN 


407 


and  uttered  the  Amens.  Then,  with  his  right  hand  upon  the 
Holy  Gospels,  he  made  his  Profession  of  Faith  in  a firm  voice, 
with  his  whole  heart  and  his  whole  mind.  He  joined  in  re- 
peating the  psalm  Miserere  with  the  utmost  earnestness.  But 
when  Father  Tobel  made  ready  to  administer  conditional  bap- 
tism, the  neophyte  recoiled.  First  in  seemly  Latin  and  then 
in  persuasive  German  he  made  it  plain  that  the  validity  of  the 
sacrament  which  had  been  administered  to  him  when  he  was 
fully  twelve  years  old  by  a clergyman  who  immediately  after- 
wards became  a Catholic,  did  not  admit  of  the  faintest  doubt. 
Satisfied  though  mystified,  the  priest  gave  way  and  solemnly 
pronounced  the  Absolution  releasing  Harry  from  the  bands  of 
excommunication  which  forsan , ‘ 4 perhaps’ ’ he  had  incurred. 
Then,  bidding  the  convert  follow  him.  Father  Tobel  moved 
along  the  nave  and  entered  his  confessional,  where  Harry  was 
to  make  confessionem,  integrant  peccatorum  praeteritae  vitae , 
a complete  confession  of  the  sins  of  his  past  life. 

Under  this  kindly  confessor’s  wise  guidance  even  a com- 
plete confession  could  not  take  long.  Father  Tobel  simply 
placed  before  his  penitent  the  Ten  Commandments  of  the  old 
Law  and  the  New  Commandments  of  the  Gospel.  And,  as  the 
young  man  answered  each  question  promptly,  clearly,  humbly, 
the  old  man  marveled  and  gave  thanks  to  God.  Here  was  a 
youth,  rich  and  handsome  and  clever  and  strong,  who  had 
done  God’s  will  on  earth  as  it  is  done  in  heaven,  who  had 
forgiven  the  many  who  had  trespassed  against  him,  who  had 
overcome  temptation,  who  had  been  delivered  from  evil.  Not 
once  in  his  life  had  this  man  lied;  indeed  so  sheer  was  his 
truthfulness  that  it  refused  to  compound  with  his  humility. 
Not  once  had  he  taken  God’s  name  in  vain,  or  borne  false  wit- 
ness or  coveted  his  neighbor’s  goods.  He  had  honored  his 
father  and  mother:  but  he  confessed  that  sometimes,  for  a 
few  moments,  he  had  harbored  against  his  father  unfilial 
thoughts.  Ever  since  he  could  remember  he  had  gone  on  a 


408 


THE  HARE 


Sunday  morning  to  worship  His  Maker  as  best  he  knew.  Not 
once  had  the  glowing  lava  of  passion  welled  through  the 
spring  flowers  of  his  chastity.  He  knelt  there  virgin,  in 
body  and  in  mind.  Yet  he  had  no  idea  that  he  was  other  than 
the  chief  of  sinners:  and  when  the  confessor  concluded  by 
asking  him  whether  he  knew  of  any  other  sin,  Henry  Coggin 
accused  himself  sternly  of  pride  and  ambition ; of  having  been 
too  curious  and  extravagant  in  eating  and  drinking ; of  having 
spent  time  and  money  on  ornamental  arts  and  studies  which 
he  might  have  devoted  to  the  sick  and  the  poor. 

Harry  had  heard  that  at  the  end  of  a confession  the  con- 
fessor immediately  proceeded  to  counsel  the  penitent  and, 
except  in  grave  cases,  to  give  absolution.  But  when  he  closed 
his  recital  there  was  a long  silence.  So  complete  was  the  young 
man’s  humility  that  he  honestly  believed  he  had  deeply  dis- 
appointed Father  Tobel  by  his  many  sins  and  negligences  and 
offenses:  and  he  meekly  bowed  his  head  to  receive  the  coming 
rebuke.  As  the  silence  lengthened  he  prepared  himself  to 
hear  that  he  must  not  yet  receive  Holy  Communion.  He 
did  not  know  that  there  was  a lump  in  the  confessor’s  throat 
which  would  not  let  him  speak  and  that  the  old  man  behind 
the  wooden  grid  was  thanking  God  with  his  whole  heart  for  the 
honor  of  receiving  this  manly,  high-souled,  unspotted  saint 
into  the  Holy  Church.  At  last  Father  Tobel  spoke  and  said : 

“My  son,  Almighty  God  has  given  you  grace  to  make  a 
good  confession.  You  have  spoken  of  ambition;  but  ambition 
can  be  laudable  when  our  motive  is  not  mere  glory  and  power, 
and  when  we  do  not  seek  to  enrich  and  enlarge  ourselves  at 
the  expense  of  meeker  and  weaker  brethren.  You  have  spoken 
also  of  pride.  In  some  fine  natures  there  is  a proper  pride, 
no  more  to  be  blamed  than  the  high  spirit  of  the  thoroughbred 
horse  or  the  agility  of  the  chamois.  And  there  is,  alas,  an- 
other kind  of  pride,  the  pride  of  self-worship,  or  arrogance, 
of  jealousy,  of  overweening  dignity.  Whenever  you  are 


THE  RAVEN 


409 


tempted  to  indulge  this  sinful  kind  of  pride,  hold  before  your 
eyes  a crucifix.  Ponder  the  crown  of  thorns  and  remind  your- 
self that  every  moment  of  sinful  pride  adds  one  more  thorn  to 
that  crowrn.  The  crucifix  shows  you  God  Himself,  mocked, 
stripped,  flogged,  wounded,  bleeding,  thirsting,  dying  because 
of  man’s  pride  and  self-will.  Contemplate  it  constantly,  at- 
tentively, fervently  until  you  can  say  like  Saint  Paul  that 
your  old  proud  self  is  dead,  crucified  with  Christ  and  dead. 

“You  spoke,  my  son,  of  your  fondness  for  the  pleasures  of 
the  table.  Within  due  bounds  there  is  no  sin  in  this  choosing 
and  relishing  your  dinner.  The  good  God  praestat  nobis  omnia 
abunde  ad  fruendum , giveth  us  richly  all  things  to  enjoy. 
There  were  those  who  flung  at  our  Master  Himself  the  taunt 
that  He  was  a gluttonous  man  and  a wine-bibber.  Avoid 
over-scrupulousness.  On  the  other  hand,  you  have  done  well 
to  mention  this.  Take  care  lest  a lawful  pleasure  should 
grow  into  a carnal  hindrance.  Be  temperate  in  all  things. 
To  test  yourself,  let  your  Lents  and  your  Advents  be  truly 
penitential  seasons.  You  are  strong;  so  fast  on  the  appointed 
days  and  do  not  be  satisfied  with  abstinence  alone.  As  for  giv- 
ing everything  to  the  poor,  perhaps  you  are  not  called  to  do 
anything  of  the  kind.  If  the  unselfish  and  industrious  people 
all  acted  in  that  way,  the  selfish  and  thriftless  half  of  man- 
kind would  do  no  work  at  all  and  would  become  more  and 
more  degraded  to  the  deadly  peril  of  their  souls. 

“Most  Christians  do  not  give  enough  to  the  poor:  but  a few 
Christians,  a very  few  and  I think  you  are  one  of  them,  may 
give  too  much.  You  blamed  yourself  for  spending  time  on 
Art.  In  this  mountain  village  we  are  simple  folk:  but  even 
here  we  know  that  Art  ministers  to  our  spiritual  and  temporal 
necessities.  Man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone.  This  building 
would  be  just  as  truly  a church  if  it  had  no  belfry,  no  statues, 
no  pictures,  no  painted  windows : but  the  sight  of  the  steeple 
lifts  hearts  to  God,  and  the  images,  the  paintings  teach  religion 


410 


THE  HARE 


to  the  children  and  the  simple  folk  while  I am  preaching  my 
dull  sermons.  In  traveling  about  and  spending  time  and 
money  studying  the  works  of  other  artists  you  are  not  wrong- 
ing the  poor : you  are  fitting  yourself  to  serve  them.  I know 
your  talent  for  music  and  I hope  you  will  employ  it  ad 
majorem  Dei  gloriam.  But  even  if  you  never  write  a Mass  or 
an  organ-piece,  even  if  you  compose  nothing  but  lively  dances 
and  tuneful  songs  to  cheer  up  your  fellow-creatures  whose 
days  are  so  often  dull  and  hard  you  will  be  spending  your 
strength  worthily.  None  the  less  I pray  that  your  life-work 
may  be  something  high  and  noble.  To  that  end  I advise 
although  I cannot  command  you  to  recite  every  day  the 
Divine  office  and  thus  to  keep  the  ears  of  your  soul  ever  open 
to  God’s  voice. 

“You  confess  that  more  than  once  you  harbored  unfilial 
thoughts  against  your  father.  My  son,  yours  is  a strange  and 
bewildering  character  and  I almost  am  surprised  to  hear  that 
even  your  nearest  kin  did  not  always  understand  you.  I ear- 
nestly beg  you  to  continue  your  excellent  practice  of  hearing 
Mass  every  day.  You  must  often  breathe  a prayer  for  your 
father’s  soul  and  thus  you  will  more  than  make  amends. 
And  I beg  you  will  sometimes  pray  for  an  old  priest  and  for 
a poor  village  in  the  high  mountains. 

‘ ‘ In  the  midst  of  heresy  and  schism,  you  have  been  miracu- 
lously preserved  from  grosser  sins.  Now  that  you  are  a 
Catholic,  the  devil  will  covet  your  soul  more  hungrily,  he 
will  bait  his  traps  for  it  more  busily  and  more  cunningly. 
You  will  outwit  and  outfight  the  devil  so  long  as  you  distrust 
your  own  feeble  self  and  rely  on  the  omnipotence  and  love  of 
God.  Read  every  week  the  life  of  a saint ; and  when  you  have 
identified  those  holy  men  and  women  whose  battles  and  tasks 
have  been  most  like  your  own,  ask  their  intercession.  Pray 
earnestly  that  you  may  be  given  a great  love  for  our  Queen 
and  Mother,  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary.  It  was  through  her, 


THE  RAVEN 


411 


through  a shining  gateway,  that  the  Divine  Redeemer  came 
to  men  and  it  is  through  her,  still  through  her,  that  God’s 
richest  blessings  are  bestowed  upon  the  world.  Be  high  of 
mind,  high  of  soul:  but  never  put  yourself  above  the  rosary 
or  above  the  artless  devotions  of  simple  fellow-Christians. 
For  your  penance  you  will  say,  while  I am  vesting  for  Mass, 
the  hymn  Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo.” 

He  ceased.  Henry  Coggin,  kneeling  in  the  shadow,  had 
been  hardly  able  to  discern  the  priest’s  face  through  the 
wooden  bars,  but  the  light  was  growing  and  he  beheld  the  coun- 
tenance of  an  angel.  The  old  man’s  gentle  words  had  sunk 
like  a cool  and  copious  dew  into  his  thirsty  heart.  In  the  past, 
Harry  had  often  been  scolded,  bullied,  frightened,  puzzled  by 
his  mentors:  and  by  Edward  Redding  he  had  been  chaffed 
and  teased.  But  from  nobody  save  Edward  Redding’s  father 
had  he  received  grave  and  kindly  counsel  until  this  moment. 
Father  Tobel  was  the  Reverend  Oswald  Redding’s  social  and 
intellectual  inferior.  Yet  there  was  a power  in  Father  Tobel ’s 
words  which  surpassed  everything  Harry  had  ever  known  or 
expected  : because  the  Church  was  speaking  through  this 
her  sacred  minister — was  teaching  like  her  Divine  Founder 
s ‘ as  one  having  authority.  ’ ’ 

A low  murmur  of  Latin  recalled  the  penitent’s  attention. 
Straining  to  listen  he  caught  the  holy  words  of  absolution  and 
saw  the  priestly  hand  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross.  Then,  after 
the  briefest  pause,  Father  Tobel  emerged  from  the  box  and  led 
Harry  back  to  the  Chapel  of  the  Seven  Dolors  where  they 
recited  together,  as  in  the  legend  of  St.  Augustine  and  St. 
Ambrose,  Te  Deum  laudamus.  And  thus,  before  one  of  the 
poorest  altars  in  the  Hapsburg  dominions;  in  a chapel  where 
the  thrill  of  their  voices  brought  down  a flake  of  plaster  from 
the  sham  groining  of  the  roof ; with  only  one  tattered  book  to 
share  between  himself  and  the  peasant-born  priest  in  his  frayed 
and  shiny  cassock : thus  was  completed  the  reception  into  the 


412 


THE  HARE 


Catholic  Church  of  Henry  Coggin,  into  whose  mind  it  never 
entered  that  a sagacious  and  learned  Benedictine  had  warned 
him  against  patronizing  Holy  Church  and  against  holding  back 
from  her  his  allegiance  until  high  music  and  stately  architec- 
ture and  dignified  ecclesiastics  should  furnish  a proud  enough 
setting  for  his  surrender. 

Once  more  guided  by  the  old  man’s  hand,  Harry  knelt  to 
hear  Mass  in  a place  to  the  right  of  the  candle-girt  coffin. 
The  girl  mourners  were  kneeling  on  the  left.  With  the  con- 
centration of  mind  which  he  had  practised  from  childhood 
Harry  did  not  release  his  gaze  from  the  book  until  he  had  pro- 
nounced, softly  and  intently,  all  the  clauses  of  Gloria  in  ex- 
celsis  Deo.  Then,  while  the  priest  still  lingered  in  the  sac- 
risty, the  convert  raised  his  eyes. 

There  was  something  bright  lying  on  the  coffin.  From  the 
spot  where  he  knelt  this  object  was  too  high  for  him  to  see 
clearly  but  it  was  certainly  of  some  polished  metal  because 
it  flashed  back  the  candle-light.  At  pompous  obsequies  in 
Berlin  and  Munich,  Harry  had  often  beheld  their  swords 
lying  on  the  biers  of  generals,  and  once  he  had  seen  a baton 
on  the  catafalque  of  a field-marshal  lying  in  state.  He  won- 
dered vaguely  how  it  had  come  to  pass  that  some  eminent 
personage  was  about  to  be  interred  in  the  humble  churchyard 
of  this  mountain  parish,  and  he  was  somewhat  surprised  that 
Father  Tobel  had  said  nothing  about  it.  But  he  swiftly  swept 
these  wandering  thoughts  back  into  captivity,  remembering 
that  he  was  about  to  hear  his  first  Mass  as  a Catholic  and  that 
it  was  not  the  hour  for  idle  curiosity. 

The  celebrant  entered  the  sanctuary  and  began  the  Mass. 
Despite  his  black  vestments  and  the  nearness  of  a coffin  he 
performed  the  ineffable  rites  exultantly  as  if  he  could  not 
fix  his  mind  upon  death  and  judgment  but  only  upon  the  res- 
urrection of  the  body  and  the  life  everlasting.  Not  even  at 


THE  RAVEN 


413 


iris  first  Mass,  four  and  forty  years  before,  had  Father  Tobel 
offered  this  Holy  Sacrifice  for  the  quick  and  for  the  dead  with 
such  faith  and  fervor. 

The  people  stood  up  as  usual  when  the  server  carried  the 
missal  from  the  south  to  the  north  corner  of  the  altar  for  the 
reading  of  the  Gospel.  Harry  rose  with  them.  To  see  the 
priest  he  had  to  look  sideways,  across  the  coffin;  and  imme- 
diately he  beheld  the  little  ax  which  he  had  given  to  Christina. 
Some  loving  hand  had  cleaned  and  burnished  the  steel  until 
it  shone  like  silver  against  the  sable  pall. 

Harry  Coggin  recoiled,  shrank,  started  sharply.  He  could 
not  keep  back  a little  moan-like  cry.  Though  the  sound  was 
small  the  village  maidens  heard  it  and  one  of  them,  who  had 
been  watching  him  wistfully  all  the  time,  again  began  to 
sob.  Harry  pulled  himself  together  and  stood  straight  and 
calm  until  the  moment  came  when  he  could  again  kneel  down. 
Then  he  let  his  thoughts  run  free. 

It  was  not  through  callousness  and  not  even  entirely  through 
his  preoccupation  in  the  great  matter  of  his  conversion  that 
Henry  Coggin  had  failed  to  recognize  this  coffin  as  Christina’s, 
Father  Tobel  had  offered  no  information  about  the  funeral, 
As  for  the  people  at  the  inn,  Harry  had  deliberately  kept 
out  of  their  way,  knowing  that  to  them  the  death  of  Fraulein 
Rabe  was  an  exciting  nine-days ’-wonder  as  well  as  a piteous 
tragedy,  and  that  genuine  laments  would  be  mixed  with  mor- 
bid chatter  which  he  could  not  endure.  But  the  main  reason 
for  his  dullness  was  quite  a different  one.  Throughout  these 
three  days,  which  seemed  to  have  been  either  three  short  hours 
or  three  long  years,  the  vastest  happenings  and  sharpest  emo- 
tions of  his  life  had  thronged  round  him  and  probed  through 
him  while  he  was  exhausted  by  want  of  food  and  sleep,  racked 
with  suspense  and  bodily  pain,  distracted  in  mind,  upheaved  in 
soul.  Christina  had  alternately  overwhelmed  him  like  a 
bursting  wave  or  receded,  smaller  than  a ripple,  to  the  fur- 


414- 


THE  HARE 


thest  horizon.  Even  as  a child  playing  with  a telescope  looks 
first  through  the  small  end  and  then  through  the  big,  so  that 
the  cows  in  the  meadow  under  his  window  appear  first  like 
mammoths  on  a wild  prairie  and  then  like  the  smallest  wooden 
animals  from  the  tiniest  Noah’s  Ark,  treading  daintily  in  the 
finest  moss : so  by  turns  Henry  Coggin  had  seen  his  friendship 
with  Christina,  now  enormous  and  near,  now  speck-like  and 
far. 

The  sum  of  muffled  shufflings  and  breathings  behind  him 
told  Harry  that  the  church  was  filled  with  people.  He  felt 
sure  that  Christina’s  rich  and  fashionable  and  powerful  friends 
were  there.  Probably  Christina’s  betrothed  lover  was  kneel- 
ing among  the  chief  mourners.  When  Mass  was  over,  Harry 
and  this  desolated  man  would  have  to  meet.  Perhaps  there 
would  be  questions  about  the  finding  of  Christina’s  body — 
questions  and  more  questions  and  painful  thanks.  But  as 
Harry  pictured  the  scene,  Father  Tobel  at  the  altar  pro- 
nounced distinctly  the  words  sursum  corda  and  the  convert 
once  more  lifted  up  his  heart  to  God.  Yet  he  could  not  try 
to  put  from  him  the  sense  of  Christina’s  presence.  It  might 
be  true  that  only  her  mortal  part  lay  beneath  the  black  and 
silver  pall : but  her  invisible  immortal  self  was  no  less  certainly 
in  the  church,  close  to  his  side,  worshiping  God  with  him,  en- 
lightening and  strengthening  him  in  his  new  life. 

When  Henry  Coggin  knelt  at  last  against  the  wooden  com- 
munion-rail and  received  his  Lord  and  his  God,  a supreme 
favor  was  bestowed  upon  him  from  heaven.  Without  ecstasy, 
without  wonder,  almost  without  feeling,  he  had  an  absolute 
certitude  that  He  Who  did  not  abhor  the  Virgin’s  womb  was 
indeed  and  in  truth  entering  into  Harry’s  inmost  being;  that 
he  was  in  truth  and  in  deed  welcoming  the  heavenly  Guest  to 
the  hearthstone  of  his  soul : that  the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth, 
of  all  things,  visible  and  invisible,  was  united  to  his,  Harry 
Coggin ’s  humanity  and  that  his,  Harry  Coggin ’s  humanity  was 


THE  RAVEN 


415 


partaking  of  his  Lord’s  Divinity.  He  was  in  God  and  God 
was  in  him.  The  almighty  Source  of  all  light  and  life,  Who 
had  given  Christina  her  beautiful  eyes,  her  bird-like  voice,  her 
eager  spirit:  Who  had  piled  high  the  mountains  whereon 
Christina  was  lost.  Who  had  carved  out  her  ravine  of  death : 
Who  had  caused  the  tree  to  grow  from  which  this  her  coffin 
was  made:  Whose  new-risen  sun,  one  of  His  ten  thousand 
thousand  shining  messengers,  was  kindling  with  a burning 
spear  the  steel  blade  of  Christina’s  little  ax:  this  unutterable, 
eternal  Love  was  one  with  him,  Harry  Coggin,  the  meanest  of 
His  creatures.  Mystery  spread  around  him  and  above  him 
like  the  trees  of  a solemn  and  boundless  forest;  but  every 
shadow  nursed  warm  light  in  its  bosom,  and  nowhere  fell  the 
slightest  blight  of  doubt.  As  if  God  were  resting  against 
him  after  the  work  of  creation,  Harry  seemed  to  see  all  that 
God  had  made,  all  that  God  had  done  in  Christina’s  life  and 
in  his  own : ‘ ‘ and,  behold,  it  was  very  good.  ’ ’ 

Henry  Coggin  returned  to  his  place  near  the  bier.  He  had 
been  kneeling  there  about  a quarter  of  an  hour,  fervently  offer- 
ing his  first  Communion  for  Christina’s  soul  when  he  heard 
a rustling  sound  a few  inches  in  front  of  his  closed  eyes. 
Looking  round  he  saw  that  Father  Tobel  had  laid  an  unsealed 
envelope  on  the  shelf  of  the  prie-dieu  and  was  now  choosing 
a place  where  he  might  kneel  to  make  his  thanksgiving. 

Harry  believed  that  the  envelope  contained  one  of  the 
gilded  cards  which  he  had  seen  little  children  receive  on  the 
day  of  their  first  Communion.  He  felt  grateful  for  this 
attention  and  resolved  to  treasure  the  souvenir  with  reverence. 
But  on  opening  the  envelope  he  found  no  adoring  angels  with 
white  wings  and  blue  raiment  holding  high  a golden  chalice, 
no  embossed  or  lace-edged  paste-board.  What  he  drew  forth 
was  a folded  sheet  of  music-paper  jotted  thickly  with  crotchets 
and  quavers  by  his  own  hand.  Almost  instantly  he  recognized 


416 


THE  HARE 


it  as  the  manuscript  of  his  album-leaf  The  Raven  which  he 
had  given  to  Christina  five  days  before. 

Greatly  bewildered,  Harry  unfolded  the  sheet.  At  last  he 
turned  it  over  and  saw  that  the  back  was  covered  with  words 
penciled  in  irregular  lines.  At  the  top  of  the  page  the  writing 
was  neat  and  firm  but  the  characters  grew  large  and  clumsy 
as  they  neared  the  bottom.  These  were  the  sentences  which 
Harry  read : 

1 k7iow  now  that  they  will  not  find  me  alive . Nobody  will 
think  of  searching  for  me  in  this  hollow !.  I cannot  limp  a step 
further , I cannot  cry  aloud  any  more . It  is  God’s  holy  will 
that  1 shall  not  outlive  this  night . 

At  Mass  yesterday  morning  and  again  at  the  Wasserblase , 
God  revealed  it  to  me  that  Death  and  I must  soon  meet.  But 
I thought  it  was  my  Karri  who  was  to  die  and  that  I was  to 
live  long , long,  long,  happy  in  faithful  sadness. 

Sweet  Mary,  my  dear  Mother,  how  many  thousand  times  with 
thy  rosary  in  my  hands  have  I said  “pray  for  me  now  and  in 
the  hour  of  my  death.”  How  far  apart,  what  thousands  of 
ages  apart,  “now”  and  “the  hour  of  my  death”  seemed  to  be! 
And  at  last  they  meet  together,  they  melt  into  one.  Oh,  Mary , 
my  Queen  and  Mother,  pray  God  for  me  that  if  I am  to  die  I 
may  be  spared  the  terrors  of  the  night.  After  all,  though  I 
love  like  a woman,  1 am  only  a poor,  spoilt,  feeble,  stupid 
child,  so  greedy  for  food,  so  peevish  for  warmth,  so  afraid  of 
the  dark. — Not  once  in  my  life  have  I lacked  a meal  till  now, 
not  once  have  I faced  a night  without  some  one  to  protect  me. 

My  God,  my  God,  when  I began  to  write  on  this  paper  it 
seemed  easy  to  obey  Thy  will.  But  it  is  hard  to  die.  Why 
must  1 die,  my  God , my  God? 


THE  RAVEN 


417 


Tester  day  Earri  frightened  me  when  I asked  him  if  he 
thought  Christina  Maria  a pretty  name.  Jesus , Jesus  Christ, 
1 am  Christina . I am  thy  unworthy  namesake.  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  Thou  didst  endure  three  hours  of  anguish  in  the  dark- 
ness for  me.  Must  Christina  loo  have  her  three  hours  of 
agony  ? Jesu  mercy,  Mary  help . k 

The  bell  has  rung  by  now  for  supper . By  now  Anna  has 
told  them  that  I am  lost . But  dusk  has  fallen.  They  can  do 
nothing . 

1 tried  to  pray  just  now  that  God  would  work  for  me  the 
greatest  miracle  since  the  world  was  made.  I tried  to  pray 
that  my  Earri  might  descend  these  precipices,  coming  home 
this  way . But  I cannot  pray  such  a prayer . In  this  world 
1 am  not  to  see  Earri  again . 

Maiden  most  pure,  Mary  ever  a virgin,  if  I had  never  come 
to  spend  my  holidays  among  these  mountains,  if  I had  never 
met  Earri , I might  have  made  sooner  or  later  a worldly  mar- 
riage which  would  have  dulled  my  soul  and  soiled  my  body. 
Or  I might  have  made  shipwreck  of  faith  and  of  virtue  as 
better  women  than  I have  done  before  me.  This  I can  un- 
derstand. Better  that  Death  should  rob  me  of  my  youth  than 
that  sin  should  rob  me  of  my  God.  But  I do  not  understand 
why  God  does  not  wish  me  to  marry  Ea/rri.  Eow  we  could 
have  helped  one  another  to  grow  ever  better  and  nobler! 
Yet  God  alone  knows.  Perhaps  we  might  have  loved  one  an- 
other too  much  and  have  forgotten  God. 

Eow  glad  I am  that  I made  my  will  when  they  said  the 
cholera  was  coming  to  Vienna.  Anna,  poor  true  soul,  is  pro- 
vided for.  If  I had  lived  she  would  never  have  left  me j and 


418 


THE  HARE 


in  spite  of  infirmity  or  old  age  she  would  have  gone  on  slaving 
for  me.  Now  she  will  have  ease  and  rest. 

It  is  strange  to  think  that  I shall  never  again  see  my  little 
house  in  Vienna;  no,  not  even  my  room  at  the  inn.  Until 
this  moment,  wherever  I might  be,  I have  always  had  the 
thought  of  the  next  place  I am  going  to.  Now  there  is  no  next 
place  in  this  world.  This  is  the  end. 

We  are  taught  that  Heaven  is  infinitely  more  beautiful  and 
rapturous  than  the  most  lovely  dreams  of  mortals.  So 
Heaven  will  indeed  be  wonderful:  because  the  happiness  I 
have  dreamed  of  with  Harri  these  last  few  days  was  too  great 
for  my  heart  to  contain. 

I could  murmur  against  God  for  requiring  so  much  of  me. 
If  Harri  were  to  find  me  here  even  when  my  strength  is  almost 
spent  and  it  is  too  late  to  save  my  life — if  he  were  to  kiss  me 
just  once , holding  me  gently  in  his  arms  and  saying  that  he 
loves  me,  then  I could  die  gladly.  But  it  is  not  to  be. 

Remember,  Oh  most  loving  Virgin,  my  mother,  that  I am 
Maria  as  well  as  Christina.  1 am  thy  namesake  too.  AvO 
Maria,  gratia  plena,  help  me  to  say  like  thee,  “Behold  the 
handmaid  of  the  Lord , be  it  unto  me  according  to  Thy  word.” 

The  sun  has  set,  the  night  is  coming.  Since  I arranged  my 
little  altar  in  this  niche  of  rock  I feel  more  than  resigned.  I 
am  happy.  My  foot  does  not  hurt  me  so  much  and  I have 
cooled  my  parched  lips  and  tongue  against  the  moist  stone. 

Ave  Maria,  Sancta  Mater,  1 too  am  Maria.  I too  am  a 
mother.  I cannot  be  Harri’s  bride , Yet  I feel  with  thank- 
ful joy  that  I am  in  a mysterious  way  his  mother . Holy  Maryr 


THE  RAVEN 


419 


you  became  the  Mother  of  God.  Jesus  Christy  the  eternal  Son 
of  God,  is  infinitely  greater  and  more  glorious  than  you,  sweet 
Mother;  and  yet  without  you , His  mother  and  mine,  He  did 
not  fulfil  His  destiny,  He  did  not  come  into  the  world . 1 do 
not  know  how  it  will  come  to  pass:  but  God  tells  me  that  some- 
now  my  death  is  to  be  Harri’ s gate  of  life. 

Soon  it  will  be  too  dark  to  write.  1 shall  put  this  paper  in 
the  little  silk  bag  which  hangs  beneath  my  garments,  against 
my  heart,  the  little  bag  where  I have  kept  this  piece  of  music 
and  my  mother’s  ring.  When  they  prepare  me  for  burial  they 
will  find  it.  I solemnly  charge  the  person  who  first  reads  it  to 
respect  the  dead  and  to  lock  its  contents  in  her  breast.  This 
paper  is  to  be  given  to  Father  Tobel . He  may  show  it  to 
Harri.  Then  it  is  to  be  burnt . I do  not  wish  the  music  on 
the  back  to  be  copied.  Harri  will  write  many  beautiful  pieces 
for  those  who  still  live:  but  this  is  all  mine  and  none  but  tne 
angels  shall  play  it. 

Harri  gave  me  a little  ax  as  well  as  this  music.  The  ax 
slipped  from  my  hand . and  it  was  through  clambering  down 
to  save  it  that  I fell  and  must  now  die.  I wish  this  little  ax 
to  be  laid  upon  my  bier  and  to  be  buried  in  my  grave. 

Harri  is  not  to  have  any  souvenir  of  me.  This  is  my  dying 
wish  and  command.  He  is  not  to  have  a tress  of  my  hair  or  a 
ribbon  or  my  jeweled  silver  rosary  ( which  I give  to  Father 
Tobel,  good  priest  and  true  father)  or  even  one  of  the  pictures 
I showed  him  in  my  prayer-book.  I forbid  him  to  linger 
among  these  mountains  for  a single  day  after  my  funeral  or 
even  to  revisit  this  valley.  He  is  young  and  he  had  hardly 
begun  to  love  me.  Therefore  he  must  not  let  his  dark  Raven 
shadow  the  days  to  come.  In  his  own  England  he  will  marry 
a woman  of  his  own  race  and  speech.  1 hope  she  will  be  truly 


420 


THE  HARE 


English,  fair-skinned  and  golden-haired,  so  that  she  will  never 
remind  him  of  me.  Oh,  how  l should  have  hated  her  yester- 
day, this  English  beauty  who  will  be  Harri’s  bride!  But  to- 
riight  she  is  my  sister , my  friend.  1 stretch  out  my  hands 
through  the  fast-deepening  darkness,  like  a dying  mother,  and 
I give  Ilarri  into  her  keeping.  She  cannot  love  him  as  I 
would  have  loved  him , but  I will  watch  over  her  from  Heaven 
and  help  her  with  my  prayers. 

1 can  hardly  see.  When  1 opened  my  silk  bag  just  now  to 
hide  this  paper  away  1 took  out  my  mother’s  ring.  1 shall 
write  to  the  bottom  of  the  page  and  put  the  paper  back.  Then, 
kneeling  before  my  altar,  I shall  betroth  myself  to  Harri, 
speaking  formal  words  and  drawing  this  betrothal  ring  upon 
my  finger. 

Jesus,  Mary,  Joseph , I give  you  my  heart  and  my  life. 

When  Harry  Coggin  had  perused  this  holy  script  three 
times,  Father  Tobel  approached  him  quietly  and  took  the 
manuscript  out  of  his  hand.  Harry  made  no  resistance.  The 
message  was  so  burned  into  his  brain  that  he  could  have  recited 
every  sentence  word  for  word  and  could  have  imitated  every 
turn  of  the  handwriting.  The  priest  made  his  way  into  one 
of  the  chapels  and  returned  with  a rough  iron  tray  which 
was  used  to  receive  the  drippings  from  a tripod  of  votive 
tapers.  Bidding  Harry  hold  this  tray,  Father  Tobel  thrust 
the  sheets  of  paper  into  the  flame  of  one  of  the  great  yellow 
candles  which  burned  round  Christina’s  coffin.  He  turned  it 
this  way  and  that  until  it  was  well  alight  and  then  dropped  it, 
blazing  all  over,  upon  the  tray.  They  watched  it  until  it 
shrank  into  a scant,  coal-black  scroll,  gashed  and  pricked  all 
over  by  Harry’s  and  Christina’s  pencils. 

Father  Tobel  carefully  enclosed  the  frail  cinder  in  both  his 


THE  RAVEN 


421 


hands,  as  if  it  had  been  a wounded  bird,  a poor  young  raven. 
Carrying  the  treasure  with  reverence  he  moved  out  of  the 
church  by  the  south  door.  Harry  followed,  his  hands  knit 
together,  his  gaze  bent  upon  the  ground,  until  they  stood  in 
the  sunshine  beside  a newly-dug  grave.  The  white-haired 
priest  murmured  some  words  which  could  not  be  heard  and 
slowly  unclasped  his  fingers,  letting  the  black  scroll  break  in 
the  air  and  flutter  down  into  the  depths  of  the  grave  like 
dead  leaves. 

The  sacristan  hurried  up  anxiously,  bearing  the  priest’s 
biretta.  Father  Tobel  covered  his  head  and  led  Harry  to 
the  Calvary  in  the  center  of  the  church-yard.  Over  the  rude 
graves  of  the  mountain  folk  the  arms  of  the  Crucified  Re- 
deemer were  extended  wide.  At  length  the  old  man  broke  hi3 
long  silence  and  said : 

“My  son,  you  know  now  why  I bade  you  prepare  to  depart 
hence  this  day.  Before  the  sun  sets  your  feet  will  be  upon 
the  plains,  you  will  have  begun  the  journey  home  to  your  own 
land.  Never  again  will  you  behold  this  church  or  yonder 
grave.  Never  again  shall  we  meet  in  the  flesh. 

“I  do  not  dare  to  give  you  counsels — to  admonish  you,  my 
son,  who  are  so  much  more  wise,  more  holy,  more  favored  of 
Heaven  than  I can  ever  hope  to  be.  But  I may  humbly  ask  of 
you  one  thing. 

‘ ‘ To-day  is  the  octave-day  of  the  Assumption.  Year  by  year 
until  you  die  I beg  you  to  make  of  these  eight  days  and  their 
vigil  a holy  season,  a nine-days’  prayer.  Renew  on  these 
solemn  anniversaries  the  vows  you  have  just  vowed.  Make 
during  these  nine  days,  year  by  year,  a good  confession  and 
devoutly  receive  Holy  Communion,  remembering  your  first 
confession  and  your  first  Communion  in  this  humble  church 
to-day. 

“My  son,  long  after  I am  gone,  the  good  people  of  this 
parish  will  point  out  the  place  where  the  famous  and  beautiful 


422 


THE  HARE 


singer  fell  and  the  spot  where  the  young  English  Hercules 
found  her.  They  will  murmur  ‘Poor  lady,’  they  will  praise 
her  virtue  and  bounty,  they  will  breathe  charitable  prayers 
for  her  soul.  And  then,  when  I am  gone,  none  in  the  world 
but  you  will  know  that  a saint  has  lived  and  died  among  us, 
that  a saint  lies  buried  among  us  sinners  here.  A saint,  a great 
saint.  Nor  for  her  the  splendors  of  canonization,  the  honors 
of  the  Church’s  altars.  But  she  has  her  altars  in  your  heart 
and  mine  where  we  shall  humble  our  souls  and  implore  her 
prayers. 

* ‘ On  the  Feast  of  All  Saints,  only  ten  weeks  from  now,  I bid 
you  join  with  me  in  spirit,  wherever  you  may  be,  in  honoring 
this  saint  indeed.  Oh,  the  nameless  saints,  the  unknown  saints, 
how  it  thrills  and  warms  my  heart  to  think  of  them  at  this 
hour ! So  many  of  the  saints  in  the  calendars  have  been  popes, 
bishops,  priests,  monks,  nuns,  hermits,  kings,  queens,  prin- 
cesses, that  sometimes  we  everyday  folk  are  tempted  to  fear 
that  our  God  is  after  all  a respecter  of  persons  and  that  saint- 
liness is  not  for  such  as  you  and  me.  We  forget  that  in  the 
cloister  and  in  the  palace  the  light  beats  strong.  Heroic  virtue 
can  hardly  be  hidden  there ; nor  are  champions  wanting  to  ad- 
vance the  dead  saint’s  cause.  But  for  every  saint  who  has 
an  altar,  an  image,  a Mass,  an  office,  perhaps  there  are  a 
thousand  whose  names  are  written  only  in  Heaven  and  a few 
loving  hearts.  0,  altitudo  divitiarum  Dei,  0 the  height,  the 
depth  of  the  riches  of  God ! What  legions  of  hidden  saints  He 
has  set  off  against  us  poor  sinners ! Even  to  His  Church  God 
will  not  tell  all  His  secrets. 

“Harri,  I must  utter  just  once  the  name  by  which  your 
saint  loved  to  call  you.  You  know  that  I am  a plain  old  man, 
a peasant ’s  son,  with  no  elegant  arts  of  speech,  no  poetical  im- 
agination, no  graceful  fancies.  But  ever  since  her  body  was 
found,  ever  since  I read  the  paper  which  we  have  burned,  a 
thought  has  kept  coming  to  me  again  and  again.  Unto  you, 


THE  RAVEN 


423 


my  son,  coming  hither  from  your  England  in  the  rainy  West, 
surely  God  has  spoken  as  He  spoke  to  Elias,  Vade  contra 
orientem  et  abscondere  in  torrente , corvisque  praecepi  ut 
pascant  te  ibi : ‘Go  towards  the  east  and  hide  thyself  by  the 
torrent,  and  I have  commanded  the  ravens  to  feed  thee  there.  ’ 
An  unseen  Hand  brought  you  hither  and  a raven  has  fed  you 
with  the  Bread  of  Heaven. 

“Last  night  I turned  to  the  Third  Book  of  Kings  to  read 
these  words  which  were  haunting  me;  and  a little  further 
on  I found  that  Elias  was  miraculously  fed  once  more;  and 
then  the  raven  had  become  an  angel.  Ah,  she  has  been  to  you 
more  than  a raven,  your  dear  saint,  your  poor  saint ! Like  the 
pelican  she  had  torn  open  her  own  breast  that  you  might 
be  nourished  with  warm  blood,  the  life-blood  of  faith.  Like, 
a dove  she  hovered  over  you  this  morning  when  you  were 
reconciled  to  the  Holy  Church  and  when  you  received  your 
first  Communion.  And  now  she  is  flown,  this  raven,  this 
pelican,  this  dove,  this  bright  bird,  to  flutter  round  the  throne 
of  God,  to  perch  upon  His  very  shoulder  and  to  woo  for  you 
from  Him  by  her  sweet  songs  His  richest  blessings. 

“I  will  say  no  more.  Here  and  now  let  me  clasp  your  hand. 
We  will  not  have  two  farewells.  This  is  the  end.  My  son, 
my  dear  son,  go  back  to  your  own  country,  go  back  and  set 
your  hand  to  your  life’s  work.  Go  in  peace.  Go  forth  with 
God.” 

Father  Tobel  entered  the  presbytery  and  Harry  Coggin 
lingered  in  the  church-yard.  Under  the  Calvary  there  was  not 
a breath  of  wind:  but  high  overhead  a strong  breeze  must 
have  been  blowing  because  the  mists  came  streaming  wildly 
towards  him  from  the  tops  of  the  mountains.  Suddenly  a peak 
in  the  west  caught  the  full  radiance  of  the  sun  and  the  virgin 
«now  above  its  dark  pine-woods  burned  like  a white  fire  upon 
an  altar. 


424  THE  HARE 

As  height  after  height  broke  into  flame,  like  a chain  of  bea- 
cons, Harry  remembered  that  beyond  them  was  England,  { 
And  the  rampart  of  ice  did  not  daunt  him.  He  had  come  to 
the  full  stature  of  his  manhood.  The  mountains  with  their 
dizzy  stairways  and  their  frozen  corridors  hid  no  more  secrets  I 
from  him,  held  for  him  no  more  terrors.  He  felt  that  he1 
could  have  stepped  over  those  sharp  summits  as  if  they  had 
been  no  more  than  ant-hills  in  his  path. 

After  six  days  of  drought  the  lesser  streams  and  waterfalls 
were  dumb : but  the  torrent  resounded  always  in  its  ancient 
bed,  like  a deep  voice  calling. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


PRINTED  IN  U S A. 


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